


Brief Encounter

by indigo (indigo_angels)



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_angels/pseuds/indigo
Summary: Some people are just destined to keep on bumping into each other in life. How long does it need to go on for before they both just succumb to fate?First posted as a collection of birthday gifts for the H/F Yahoo group.





	1. Brief Encounter 1

Hannibal can’t believe his eyes once he steps out of the elevator and into the swarming teenage throngs. When he’d been pressganged into attending this career fair in a sunny corner of California, he’d pictured a huge, leafy campus, maybe an old red-brick building with tall windows that let the golden sun slant through; what he’d got, however, was a huge, subterranean cavern, the joint smells of sweat and alcohol permanently staining the air and a huge horde of sweaty, bored-looking sophomores trailing from stand to stand.

 

He grits his teeth and slogs through the crowd looking for the Army’s stand, leaning heavily on his cane and just daring one of these little punks to jostle his still-healing knee. It’s the worst thing about being on light duties, the absolute worst thing, much more unpleasant than any pain he might have felt with his injury, was having to take his turn at career fairs – the way he saw it, if you were meant to be in the forces then you already knew it, and if you didn’t know it, you had no business trying it. Unfortunately, the top brass doesn’t agree with him, and so here he is, ready to do his time in purgatory.

 

Major Andy Wilson spots him coming through the shuffling crowds and is ready to make his quick getaway the second Hannibal slips behind the trestle table and into their allotted portion of space. “Thought you were never coming, Hannibal…” he grumbles as he grabs the remains of his lunch. “Have fun. At least you get to watch the cute girls…” Hannibal only raises an eyebrow, knowing that even _that_ simple pleasure holds nothing for him and eases himself down on the edge of the table to try and last the next four hours out.

 

It’s slow going. And hot. And boring. And not many people come anywhere near his table – not for the purposes of joining up at any rate. At last the crowds begin to thin and he glances at his watch, an hour to go, at least it looks like the students are just as keen to leave as he is. He sighs and starts examining the neighbouring stands, it had been too busy before now to be able to see much of anything. He shakes his head as he sees who his closest neighbour is, of course the Budweiser stand is the busiest there, even though everyone is probably there for the free samples rather than any career opportunities and as he idly stares across the hall, his eyes pick out a single male figure wandering over there himself, no doubt wanting to join the ranks trying to get a free beer.

 

It’s strange that he should turn up just as everyone else is starting to leave, and that he’s alone, the others have all been in gaggling, preening packs. Hannibal has nothing else to do; there is no one waiting for his attention and it is too early to leave, he's had a dull and oppressive afternoon and figures he deserves a treat. Whilst it's true that none of the young ladies who'd been parading in front of him that afternoon have tickled his fancy, this one is a different matter entirely... he can't quite see him properly just yet, but there are definite possibilities.

 

Settling back, Hannibal watches this newcomer as he talks to the Budweiser girls. His manner is easy, his head tilted in a manner that's both cocky and relaxed. He'd made his way straight over to them, and Hannibal wonders if his aim was more towards getting a number off one of them but then, maybe not... he keeps glancing over his shoulder, checking out the Army stand from the corner of his eye but never quite looking at Hannibal, never quite turning fully his way.

 

It's odd. Hannibal, safe in the knowledge that no one in here knows him, allows his eyes to run over the pert buttocks nestled in tastefully faded jeans. And that's another oddity he thinks; most of the clothes that have paraded through the hall through this afternoon had obviously been bought on Rodeo Drive, not these, that much is blatantly clear. Yes, they are neat and hang beautifully, but they're unbranded, undoubtedly cheap and again that makes Hannibal wonder how the wearer fits in.

 

The stalls are finally starting to pack up. Regretfully enough to make Hannibal wonder if the kid hasn't quite got around to asking for their numbers, the Budweiser girls step back as workmen come and start dismantling their stand, their visitor backs away a little, his gaze flicking to Hannibal one last time before he wanders to the other side of the room and the now abandoned American Human Society stand. It's as he nonchalantly strolls past that Hannibal gets his first proper look and, quite frankly, it's enough to make his mouth go dry.

 

The boy is beautiful, and he _does_ look very much like a boy, even dressed up in his best preppy button down, Hannibal doubts his sophomore status. It only increases the attraction though, in Hannibal's eyes. His hair is a dark blonde colour, curling artfully in what are obviously carefully styled waves framing his angel's face. He's lightly tanned, the curve of his pecs and biceps only slightly obvious where they swell under his shirt, he looks like a casual surfer, with a body full of grace and latent strength, but it's his eyes that really harpoon Hannibal's attention.

 

There's been only one glance his way, just as the kid passed right across the front of Hannibal's stand, but it’s enough to see that bright cerulean blue framed by the longest and most angelically curling eyelashes that Hannibal has ever seen off a woman. It’s peaked his interest, but the kid hasn't paused, has just kept on walking until he stoops to pick up some leaflets and stand, with his back to Hannibal once more at the AHS stand.

 

It's a pleasant enough way to spend ten minutes, Hannibal lounging against the table, idly staring at the kid's back, imagining him in swimwear on the beach, wishing he could watch him surfing, see all that promised muscle out on display, it would certainly be a sight to behold...

 

"Alright, sir? You ready to move out?"

 

Hannibal is blinked back to attention by the arrival of two corporals, one of whom is already taking the posters down from the stand. He nods and pushes stiffly to his feet; with one last glance at the kid's back, he starts loading leaflets into a box.

 

It takes them only ten minutes to pack away, Hannibal insists on helping even though the two corporals try repeatedly to persuade him otherwise. It is, however, a struggle to carry the two boxes of leftover recruitment packs out to the truck and manage his stick at the same time, so while the corporals handle the larger gear, he takes two trips, returning to the otherwise deserted hall for his last box only to find a very familiar figure crouching there, frantically leafing through the brochures inside.

 

Hannibal frowns, takes a moment to appreciate the inch of underwear he can see peeking out above the kid's waistband as he crouches and then clears his throat. "You alright there, son?"

 

The result is spectacular. In a moment the kid is on his feet, cheeks flushed a very becoming shade of pink, fingers gripping an incriminating brochure tightly. "Er, yes, sir, I mean, yes..." he nods and takes a step back noticeably pulling himself back together and coming up with self-assured grin from somewhere deep inside. "I thought you'd forgotten this one," he points at the box. "I was bringing it out to you."

 

Raising his eyebrows at the blatant lie, Hannibal leans casually against the table. "What? One brochure at a time?"

 

Realising he's been made, the kid's smile disappears and it's like the bright summer sunshine vanishing behind a thick, black cloud. "Yeah..." those beautiful eyes drop and he bends to drop the brochure back, "sorry, I'll put it back..."

 

Hannibal stoops and without thought grips the kid's wrist stopping him. Their eyes meet over the battered box and something deep in Hannibal's chest seems to expand and flare into life. They're both still, Hannibal trying not to drown in those incredible blue eyes, and he realises that he'd been right - there is no way this kid is old enough to be about to start his senior year.

 

"Why didn't you come and speak to me?" the question surprises him, he's certainly not planned it but it’s all he's wondered since he saw the kid come in, especially now he knows he does actually want some recruitment materials.

 

His answer is a deepening of the blush and a shrug and a gentle tug on the wrist that Hannibal still holds. He takes the hint, withdrawing his fingers and straightening up just as the two corporals return. "Keep it," he gestures at the brochure. "You thinking of the army?"

 

The kid keeps hold of the glossy brochure, rolling it up and hiding it behind his back as the two corporals watch from the doorway. "Not thinking," he tells Hannibal quietly. "I'm sure."

 

Hannibal nods, watches him carefully for a minute, sees the way he wavers under Hannibal's eyes. " _Be_ sure then, kid. You see something you want, you go for it. Don't let anyone tell you can't do it, you're not good enough. Make a plan and follow it through." He sees something then, glinting in those blue eyes. "You got a plan?" Another nod but no more information is forthcoming - Hannibal doesn't blame him for wanting to keep it close to his chest in front of the silently watching corporals, he himself is very aware of the two stares coming from the doorway. "Good," and somehow he knows it is. "Stick to it, work hard, don't let anything turn your head."

 

They watch each other a moment longer and the kid nods once more, swallows hard, "I won't, sir."

 

He sounds like he means it and the thought is strangely comforting to Hannibal. He's no reason to stay though, not now, so he turns on his stick instead, very reluctantly pulling his eyes away from those beautiful blue pools. "Good luck," he offers as he limps stiffly towards the door. "Maybe I'll see you a Ranger one day."

 

The kid doesn't answer, but Hannibal can feel those blue eyes on him right up until the doors swing shut on the empty hall.


	2. Brief Encounter 2

It was a good break Hannibal supposes, not one of the best but certainly not the worst. He’d caught up with his mom, his sister and brother and his ex-wife, fucked three separate men in three separate cities and he’s now ready to go back out there and face death and destruction all over again. He’s still in his civilian attire, fairly non-descript hold-all thrown over one shoulder; sometimes it’s good to pass by unnoticed.

 

Three of the reasons for that incognito-desire are standing at the head of the line waiting for the bus, hassling some kid with a regulation buzz cut and a clearly military duffle on his back. Hannibal eyes them warily but hangs back, anyone wanting to join up needs to know that there are dick-heads like this out there, never quite big enough to get out into a warzone and fight for their country themselves, but plenty big enough to jostle a kid on his way to basic training – and more importantly, they need to know how to handle them.

 

The kid seems to be doing okay anyway, ignoring them, his back straight and proud and Hannibal wonders if maybe he’s made the wrong call, if maybe this kid is a little more seasoned than he’d first appeared – it’s hard to tell when he can only see the back of his head, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the beer-fuelled insults being thrown at him.

 

Hannibal glances at his watch; damn bus is late and he knew he should have stumped up the cash for a cab, he’d be lucky to have the time to meet up with Russ for a drink before they both ship out at this rate. He glances back up the street towards the taxi ranks, maybe he should just sod the expense, it wasn’t like he had anything else much to spend his money on anyway…

 

Laughter catches his attention from the front of the line and the three beer-heads are almost peeing themselves as the kid slowly climbs to his feet from his spot on the wet ground, his back to Hannibal still, but the anger clear in every line of his body. He says something to them, something too quiet for Hannibal to hear but all it gets is more laughter, more laughter and shove to the chest that has him slamming back into the Perspex shelter. Hannibal narrows his eyes and heaves his bag firmly onto his back, preparing to step in, but someone else beats him to it – an old lady, not an inch over five foot tall firmly plants herself between the idiots and the boy, her tone furious, her words lost in laughter.

 

And then – just like in the worst combat situation, everything changes in the blink of an eye. One of the drunks reaches out and pushes her to the side and she trips, going down in a heavy sprawl of shopping, overcoats and gasping onlookers and as Hannibal springs forward, the kid explodes in a burst of fury. By the time Hannibal shoves his way to his side, the three drunks are on the ground moaning and bleeding and the kid looks like he’s about to finish them all off. Hannibal hauls him away, slamming him into the Perspex window for the second time as he pins taut arms to his sides. “Easy, tiger!” the words are practically hissed into his ear.

 

The kid’s strong and Hannibal’s actually struggling to hold him until another voice calls out into the melee, “Oh, she’s bleeding! She hit her head! Anyone know First Aid?”

 

It seems to grab everyone’s attention and the dynamo in Hannibal's arms goes limp enough for Hannibal to release him, to step back and makes eye contact and reassure himself he’s not been had here. It’s then he does a double take as he sees the piercing blue eyes furiously boring into him and he _knows_ he’s seen them somewhere before but he can’t quite place where… The old lady cries out in pain and that gets them both moving, tripping over themselves to get to her side, Hannibal taking control, ordering someone to get her something to keep her warm, another person to call an ambulance and the police, martialling the others who appear to stand guard over the sheepish looking drunks.

 

The kid’s on his knees in the dirt at the old lady’s side, her hand in his, his fingers brushing her hair, her cheek, his lips moving as he talks non-stop and as Hannibal watches he sees her laugh a little despite her pain and shock, sees her blush even and shakes his head; kid’s a damn babe magnet, even if that babe must be pushing eighty five.

 

The EMTs arrive at the same time as the cops and Hannibal is kept busy once more explaining what’s happened, stopping one of the trio from legging it and it’s only after that, maybe twenty minutes later as the old lady is being loaded into the ambulance, that he looks around for the kid, being far from surprised to find him conspicuously absent.     

 

It takes another ten minutes before Hannibal is finished and the crowd wanders away into the night. He’s missed his bus and has no option but to head down to the taxi rank and take a stupidly over-priced cab all the way to the base. It’s raining when he finally gets there, maybe in time for one drink with Russell, and reluctantly pays up, stooping as he heads for the gates and passes another taxi, another stooped and wet looking figure and hears a snippet of their conversation.

 

“Really?” he stops dead at the defiant tone to that familiar voice, his memories finally flicking into place. “That include the tour as well?”

 

There’s a pause from the driver before an indignant answer, “Tour? What fucking tour, kid?”

 

“The tour of Atlanta on the way out. We passed the Bank of American building three times.” A few notes are stuffed in through the window to fill the silence. “What did you think? I was some hick in the big city for the first time?” Hannibal has to stifle a laugh. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”

 

The driver growls a response, but the kid just heaves his duffle onto his shoulder and turns around, walking straight into Hannibal as the cab squeals off behind him.

 

“We coulda shared,” Hannibal starts without preamble, “If you hadn’t just run off on me there.”

 

He sees the kid’s eyes widen in alarm, sees him shuffle into an automatic response of attention which tells him that, not only does the kid remember him too, Hannibal was also right in the fact that this was _not_ him turning up for Basic. “Yes sir, sorry sir, I wanted to make sure I was back before curfew, sir.”

 

That gets Hannibal's eyebrow quirking. “You got a curfew, son?” the kid doesn’t answer but Hannibal sees the anger in his expression. “Was that part of your plan then? That and brawling in the street with those half-wits?”

 

“I didn’t start that!” the words are out of his mouth without thought and Hannibal sadly recognises the probable cause of the curfew. “They shoved that nice old lady around! I was just protecting her!”

 

“No, you weren’t,” Hannibal keeps his voice low and measured. “You were just beating the shit outta them because they were assholes. You’d have given them some more as well if I hadn’t stopped you. How would that have looked on your service record, then?”    

 

There’s no answer and Hannibal’s not in the mood to push for one. He can see the anger in those stunning blue eyes, but more than that, he can see the fear, the desperation, the realisation that not everything is going the way it was supposed to have done. He sighs. “What did I say to you, kid? Back then? In that god-awful college fair?” He knows the kid remembers, can see it in his panicked expression but again, he somehow knows not to push. “Stick to your plan, work hard, don't let anything turn your head." Blue eyes flick to meet his and now there’s an edge of shame in there. “You here on AIT?”

 

“Yes, sir. Infantry. Last two weeks.” Hannibal raises an eyebrow at that. “Been to LA for a funeral,” the kid fills in quietly.

 

Ah. Right.

 

He sighs, sees the guys on the gate watching them and slaps the kid on the back, “Keep your nose clean,” he mutters as they turn to walk in. “That kind of shit can stick to you, you know that?”

 

It’s like he’s just gifted the kid the very best present ever and he suddenly realises that he must have thought that Hannibal was going to shop him, haul him straight up in front of his superiors on a ‘conduct unbecoming’ charge. He shakes his head, kid needs to trust more, he wonders who his commanding officer is in AIT.

 

“Thank you, Major Smith, sir.” They’re at the gate now, credentials checked and doors opened to let them in. Hannibal turns in time to return the snappy salute the kid offers him and then watches as he’s gone, loping easily up the dark sidewalk, wetly shining in the glare from the streetlamps. It’s no surprise he knows who Hannibal is, probably looked him up after that stupid fair, definitely knew him at the bus rank in Atlanta. He shakes his head and turns to the guards at the gate who’re looking back at the rainy night.

 

“Corporal?” the nearest one turns in an instant, his body snapping to attention.

 

“Yes sir, Major, sir?”

 

Hannibal nods up into the now empty road. “Who was that soldier?”


	3. Brief Encounter 3

“What in God’s name is going on now?”

 

There’s a snap in Russ’ voice that Hannibal rarely hears and it’s testament to the day he’s had sorting out far too many disciplinary issues in a base full of men chaffing at their enforced inaction in hotter than hell temperatures. The sun’s going down now, the edge of the heat just sliding away but still, it’s too hot and the heat makes more than Russ lose his cool.

 

They approach the crowd, staying back, staying quiet, hoping to work out what’s going on before anyone sees them and they realise that the crowd are around one of the sparring pits, that, undoubtedly, there is a fight going on there, not training, no one here would be baying like they are if it was training, and Hannibal feels Russ pause, knows he’s considering walking away again and letting the men blow off a little steam with the illegal gambling that’s no doubt going on here but then he sighs, squares his shoulders and steps in and Hannibal dutifully follows him.

 

The first shock that they get as soon as they push far enough forward is that there are three men in the pit and that the bout is a less-than-fair two against one. The second shock is that it appears to be the single assailant that has the upper hand – barely. Russ’ eyes narrow and Hannibal can’t hold back the sigh as he recognises that single assailant, would know those incredible blue eyes anywhere, even with one of them as swollen as it is now, notes the way that the usually honey blond hair has turned dark with sweat and only has a moment to wonder why trouble seems to stalk him so closely before Russell hisses in his ear.

 

“You know these men?”

 

Only the one, and for some reason he’s reluctant to name the kid though, reluctant for Russ to pin all the blame on the only one with a name. “They’re not ours,” he says instead, which is also true.

 

Russ sighs, and for a minute more they watch. It’s brutal and bloody and all about anger rather than skill. The kid’s fighting style is unusual; he’s clearly using plenty of Army-taught technique, but he’s also falling back more and more onto dirty street fighting and Hannibal can see he’s had to fight for real more than once already. His two combatants are less skilled, less fluid, less imaginative but they’re bigger, meaner and of course there are two of them.

 

The tide seems to be turning their way once more and Hannibal throws Russell a sideways look, wondering how long he’s going to let this pantomime go on for. He can see his commander assessing, shrewd eyes weighing everything up, that finely balanced brain of his assessing what could be gained over letting them continue instead of making them stop.

 

One of the pair manages to get a good kick into the kid’s thigh, sending him sprawling face-first into the sawdust and in a moment, the other is on top of him, hauling him up with an arm around his neck, a hand brutally twisting his right arm behind his back and Hannibal's stomach knots. His partner steps forward then, vicious sneer on his face and the assembled crowd go wild, but, Hannibal notes with some surprise, in indignation rather than blood-lust. It’s obvious the kid is incapacitated now, obvious this fight is going to turn into a beating and Hannibal knows that even if Russ won’t stop it, he will.

 

He opens his mouth to roar above the melee just as the hunter steps forward to deliver the killer blow but before either of them can move the kid does instead, slamming his head forward, catching his attacker full-on in the groin before swinging his left elbow back into the kneecap of the man holding him.

 

In seconds it’s over, the kid is stood breathing heavily, hands on his knees, his two opponents are laid in the sawdust rolling dramatically and holding tightly to various throbbing body parts.

 

“Enough!” finally Russ steps forward and it’s almost comical the way that the entire assembled hoard snap to attention, even the three battered and bruised figures in the pit. The silence is heavy, Hannibal watches as the kid, Peck he’d been told by the Corporal on guard duty that night, looks his way for the briefest of moments before his eyes are front and centre again and everyone waits to see what the General is going to do about this blatant disregard of camp rules. He makes them wait, makes the moment stretch out and Hannibal can see that Peck is starting to sway where he’s standing.

 

“Who’s here from Charlie?” Russell barks out and there’s only the briefest of pauses before a group of shame faced looking soldiers make themselves known to the General. He shakes his head at them before ordering, “Take these idiots to medical, as soon as they’re given the all-clear, deliver them to Major Smith here,” Hannibal has to try hard not to sigh.

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

There’s more than a little relief in those replies which Hannibal knows damn well is far too premature. “Activities program is cancelled for the rest of the month!” Russ yells to the assembled crowd and a few of the mutters of complaint can’t be silenced quickly enough. “Two months!” he yells again and this time silence meets his words. “Get back to barracks…”

 

They vanish in an instant and Peck is led from the pit by soldiers from a shamefaced Charlie company, his protagonists following behind and with a shake of his head, Hannibal turns and heads to the mess hall to grab something to take back to his office – he’s going to need it, it’s going to be a long night, he can just tell.

 

_________________

 

Hannibal has barely finished his shepherd’s pie when there’s a tap at his door and Corporal Mitchell pokes his head around the frame, surreptitiously, Hannibal knows, checking out how much trouble _he’s_ in for standing and watching the fight.

 

“Mitch?” Hannibal's in no mood to draw this out any longer than he has to.

 

A quick salute is thrown his way. “Lieutenant Peck to see you, boss.”

 

Glancing at the clock, Hannibal is surprised to see that hardly forty minutes have passed since he got back to his office. “He been to medical?”

 

Mitch sighs, “Yes, sir.”

 

“They’ve given him the okay already?”

 

“No sir,” another sigh, “He’s signed himself out.”

 

Of course – somehow Hannibal isn’t at all surprised. “Alright, send him in. And wait outside,” Hannibal is in time to catch Mitch’s wince. “I’m not done with you yet.”

 

Mitch stands to one side and Peck walks in; his face is smeared in blood, one eye puffy and swollen, he’s cradling an arm against his chest and his breath is coming in sharp bursts, but still he manages to throw a cold look Hannibal's way as he pulls himself up to a grudging attention.

 

Hannibal lets him stand there. He’s surprised to see him first, thought the kid would try to scam himself as much time in medical as possible in the hope that Hannibal would have calmed down or even called it a day by the time he was done. But no, here he is, still beaten and bloodied, refusing medical attention just to get his reaming out underway early – it’s a confusing conundrum.

 

Hannibal’s silence is disconcerting him though, that’s for certain. Hannibal watches carefully, notices the tiny little flickers in those incredibly blue eyes as they start to jump his way, just a fraction of a second, then back again, makes him wait even longer, pulls it out as long as he dares, right up to the point where he can see beads of cold sweat breaking out on the kid’s upper lip, see the swaying come back into his stance and that just makes him frown. “Sit down,” he growls and also doesn’t miss the heavy and graceless way that Peck lands in the seat.

 

He waits again, this time long enough to let the kid get hold of himself once more and then he leans back in his seat, watching carefully again. “We have to stop meeting like this,” he offers into the silence.

 

Peck’s surprised, his eyes flick up and then away again. “Sir?”

 

“Don’t play dumb with me, kid,” it’s hard not to laugh. “Every time I see you, you’ve been brawling like a back-street urchin.” The words are chosen to provoke and they don’t disappoint, instantly Peck’s hackles are raised, and despite just how dangerous Hannibal knows he is, he can’t help but think of an enraged puppy.

 

“It’s not brawling,” Peck’s voice is tightly controlled, the added ‘sir’, a definite afterthought. “You know those idiots at the bus station started on me and tonight-” he jams to a halt and Hannibal laments the near miss of his first strategy to get to the truth.

 

“Tonight?” Hannibal prompts. “You telling me that those punks set on you _again_?”

 

Peck’s eyes narrow and slide away from Hannibal to rest on the wall behind his head. “We were training,” he offers in a flat voice, “that’s all.”

 

“Training?” Hannibal considers that. “Against regs?”

 

Peck shrugs.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

He waits, there’s something in those blue eyes, something that warns him that the kid is nowhere near as calm as he’d like Hannibal to think he is. He sits back in his seat, fixes the kid with his own penetrating stare, steeples his fingers and waits.

 

“You know _nothing_ about me!” When it comes, however, it’s surprising. So surprising that it makes Hannibal overlook the blatant transgression of protocol.

 

“Excuse me?” the kid is furious, but there’s just that puppy image in his head still and so he’s incredulous rather than anything else.

 

“You know _nothing_ , about me, _sir_!” Hannibal waits again and again Peck doesn’t disappoint. “You sit there in your fucking huge office, behind your fucking huge desk,” Hannibal knows it’s one of the smallest offices going and the desk is nothing more than good old fibre board but he lets the kid have his rant – for now – it may be interesting to see what else comes out. “And you think you can see it all! You think I’m just some no good trash, dragged in off the streets, no money, no privileges, no West Point, no Army daddy to help me out – and you think that makes me a… a…” he’s struggling; there’s sweat beading on his upper lip and the iris in one eye is larger than the other. Hannibal’s concern is peaked but he’s intrigued as to where this is going. “You think I’m _less_ than you, less than you all!”

 

And then everything slides quickly into place and it’s more than a little tragic; the kid here has issues that have created one huge chip on his shoulder. He’s struggled to get here and now he’s in, he’s just waiting for the boot back out again, problem is, and Hannibal knows that the kid just doesn’t see it, the only thing that’s going to get him kicked out is his own paranoia and the ridiculous urge he feels to prove himself over and over and over again to any asshole who provokes him. The more immediate problem, however, is the way that the kid is swaying in his seat and looking more than a little green.

 

“You need to get back to medical, Peck,” Hannibal barks and registers the flicker of surprise in that beaten-up face. “And this time you stay there until they say you can come out – you clear on that?”

 

“Yes, yes sir, Major,” it’s good to see the kid wrong footed.

 

Hannibal considers telling him to report back here the second he’s done, but he doubts that Peck is in any state to remember his name right now, let alone an order he needs to put into action in a few days’ time. Instead he calls for Mitch to come and haul him back out into the night, tells him to make sure that staff there know he’s there under orders. He’ll deal with the other two punks when they crawl in, see if he can find out what they said to Peck to get him so riled up, then he’ll have to deal with the idiocy in his own team that led them to believe it was okay to stand and cheer on the blatant disregarding of camp regulations. After that, he’ll go back to see Peck himself, maybe see if he can’t get him on a straighter track, one that might lead him to the Rangers rather than the stockade, Hannibal can tell the kid has promise, problem is he’s just so close to blowing it all before he really gets going… It’s a good plan and he congratulates himself on it as he smokes his cigar and waits for the next round of visitors.

 

Problem is though, the job doesn’t always respect Hannibal’s plans and this one is no different. He eventually finds out that Peck had taken exception to some of the usual inter-unit sledging and the kid himself is in medical for three days. But then the spanner really hits the works and his entire unit are shipped back out to the sandbox on a very unexpected tour of duty. It’s due to that fact that when Peck, wondering why he can’t really remember anything that happened in Smith’s office and why no incriminating paperwork ever followed him out, swings by that same office late one night, all he finds is the solitary clerk from the typing pool telling him that Major Smith’s unit will be gone for months.

 

He stands there for a while and to anyone watching him it may have looked like he was a little wrong-footed by this news, disappointed even - like he was wondering why it felt like a set-back when it hadn’t even been part of his plan. But then the clerk is rising to leave, flashing her eyelashes and a good bit of cleavage at him and he smiles, all traces of his disappointment washed from his face as they leave. Together.


	4. Brief Encounter 4

Hannibal is uneasy; more than uneasy really, damn well crawling with the uncomfortably prickling sensation of dread, but why – he’s not quite sure.

 

He should be safe here, he’s well away from the base, well away from any and all prying eyes and in a part of town that is frequented by plenty of men looking for a night of fun in one of the many brothels and specialist clubs. If anyone does see him tonight then they’ll probably assume he’s there to slake an urge, just like them, or maybe he’s checking up on his boys, making sure that no one’s going to get themselves into anything that would embarrass the Army out here, attract the wrong kind of headline. They’d have to watch him very carefully to see that he’s not really checking out the gyrating barely-teens enticing men into the clubs, not really taken in by their heavily made-up almond eyes or pouting ruby lips. They’d have to have really good (or really poor, thinks Hannibal) timing to see him slip into one of the more discretely labelled gay clubs and be really persistent to follow him in and see him take a willing young man into one of the rooms at the back. And they wouldn’t see him leave, not when Hannibal knew the manager well enough to slip him a few highly prized US dollars and sneak out of the back into the dark and a waiting bike-cab, so maybe they’d think they imagined him being there at all?

 

But still, Hannibal is uneasy.

 

It’s three months since he’s been here, three months of nothing but his own hand to take the edge off and he just can’t stand it anymore. Nothing’s changed though, same door-staff who nod at him as he slides into the cloying darkness, same pounding beat of, quite possibly, the same damn music, same smell of sweat and dry ice and semen, same smiling faces eyeing him up as he pushes through the throng to the bar, same sticky, black bar top he only remembers about when he leans both his bare fore-arms on it, same barman-come-security who eyes him up for potential trouble even as he offers him a dazzlingly expensive smile. “What can I get you, sugar?”

 

Hannibal's teeth grate but he ignores a pithy comeback for the more regulated, “Double Scotch. Rocks. No fucking parasol.”

 

The barman smiles and returns in a moment, taking the proffered money and gliding away again as Hannibal flicks the cherry out of his drink and across the sticky bar, turning then to survey the heaving mass on the dance floor; he’s made his choice, thrown his cards in and now he needs to get a move on, get the deed done and be out again before his time here turns dangerous.  

 

It’s not an easy choice to make. By nature, a lot of the men out here are smaller, slender, almost feminine in their looks and build and that’s not what Hannibal wants. He needs hard muscle and a stubbled jaw, younger, yes, but not submissive, someone who’ll push him and want him, need him but fight him. Hair, eyes, skin – none of that is important to him, he just needs… a challenge.

 

His eyes alight on a form dancing in the centre of the room, arms in the air above his head as he moves in perfect time to the music. Hannibal watches him, drinks in the sight, tries to interpret all he can from the way that lithe body shifts in and out of his vision.

 

He’s not a local - that much is certain, even in the darkness of the club he can see the way the lights shimmer across his relatively pale skin. His hair is cropped short, not a regulation buzz – thank the Lord – but short enough to have its colour disguised by the sweat soaking it through. For a moment, Hannibal is transfixed by the way the muscles in his shoulders and back shift and move under the pale cotton of his shirt, almost translucent with the moisture in this damp room, but then the crowd parts and his eyes are drawn downwards, to that inch of smooth flesh visible above low-slung jeans and Hannibal feels his already-interested cock twitch into vivid life.

 

His mind is made up and he downs his Scotch in one, feeling it’s welcome burn in the back of his throat, pushing up from the bar, the thrill of the chase already thrumming through his veins. It’s hard to know how this one will play out. Usually, Hannibal stakes his claim with eye-contact, draws his prey to him and only has to offer a few stares and heated touches before they are withdrawing to the privacy of one of the rooms at the back. The dance-floor is an unfamiliar hunting ground, the music alien to his own sense of rhythm, but there’s just something about this one that he’s unwilling to let escape.

 

It takes longer than he imagined to get close to that enticingly lithe figure and all the while he’s batting off wandering hands, reminding himself why he usually sticks to the walls in places like this, but finally, he’s there, hands itching to reach out and touch as a perfectly formed ass in well-fitting jeans grinds enticingly close to his own cock.

 

It’s time to make his move, he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold off thumping the next man who palms his ass and anyway – his internal clock is ticking. He reaches out and rests his hands on those swaying hips, he’s not grabbing, not groping, just announcing himself, putting a little pressure into getting the man in front of him to turn, getting him to twist around so they can make eye contact, so that Hannibal can gauge how interested he is, how much he might have to work to get this evening to the end he requires. He holds his face in just the right expression, just the perfect mix of lust, curiosity and dominance that would intrigue the type of man he wants and waits. 

 

The moment stretches out. His thumb inadvertently brushes against warm, damp skin and he feels the pressure in his jeans intensify just a little. Finally, with those delectable hips shifting under his hands like silk, the object of his hunt turns, head down, face in shadow, just the merest hint of a tongue flicking out to moisten parted lips. Hannibal’s heart is pounding hard against his ribs in delightful anticipation, his breath catches in his throat as he waits and then finally, _finally_ , his prey looks up – and everything stops.

 

For an intelligent, quick-thinking man, it takes Hannibal a ridiculously long time to process what he knows he is seeing. In the end it is the eyes that do it, those incredibly blue eyes, the ones he’d know anywhere despite the darkness and the strobing lights and the absolute fear that’s suddenly pounding through him. His hands spring away as if burned, he takes a step back even as he recognises the matching terror staring straight back at him.

 

_Peck…_

The word is on his lips, the slamming jolt of realisation the thing that brings that name to the fore but the kid sees it coming, is quicker to recover than Hannibal and leans in desperate fingers squeezing hard into Hannibal's bicep.

 

“Don’t say my name,” the words are breathed right into Hannibal’s ear, above the sound of the thrumming music, and – _damnit_ – if they don’t reignite his terrified cock. “I’m undercover, if I’m made, we’re both dead. You understand?”

 

Hannibal nods, his equilibrium quickly reasserting itself following the kid’s lead and trying to look like they’re doing whatever passes for close dancing in this place. “Me too,” he growls, allowing a hand to trail back around those slim hips as he wonders how totally implausible that sounded.

 

Peck blinks at him, maybe considering that implausibility for himself but then is leaning in again and Hannibal can feel the damp heat from his body as he presses tortuously close. “Don’t look round,” the words caress his neck and the sensitive skin of his ear lobe and make Hannibal shudder in desire, “But there’s a guy at the bar, watching me,” Hannibal realises that most of the men at the bar are probably watching him. “He’s wearing leather,” most of the men at the bar are wearing leather as well, “and he’s been following me for days.”

 

This ignites an irrational fire in Hannibal's gut, a burning desire to turn around and not only see the guy who has the nerve to stalk this boy, but also to pound him into the ground.

 

“I need to move on,” the kid keeps on talking though. “We need to make this look like a casual encounter, nothing more. You think you can do that?” There’s a nervousness in that voice that is impossible to hide, even over the constantly pounding music.

 

“What do you suggest?”

 

There’s a pause, they pull back a little and Hannibal watches the nervous flick of tongue against lips, but the kid’s not looking at the bar, not checking out his enemy. Good at his job maybe? Or is this something else entirely?

 

“You should kiss me,” the words sweep over his ear once more and this time he feels the burst of pre-come as it floods his shorts. “Just a kiss on the dance floor and then we move on, casual encounter – right?”

 

God damn, it’s tempting, possibly the most tempting thing that Hannibal's ever been offered and he’s about to say yes, about to just lean in and take what’s been offered but then he remembers the one horrifically sobering fundamental that he lives by, day by day, in order to keep himself safe and unknown. “I’m not gay,” he grinds out and for just a moment, the kid’s impeccable façade shifts slightly.

 

“I know,” he’s back on his game in a moment, rueful grin accompanying the wandering fingers that are trailing across Hannibal’s ass. “Me neither, but we’re gonna have to suck it up here, make it look good or we’re both in the shitter.”

 

Hannibal looks at him, watches as he moves even closer in, feels the cloying heat as he pushes a hip into his trapped erection and knows that this is a moment he will regret for quite possibly the rest of his days.

 

____________

 

In the end he doesn’t bother taking the bike-cab from the rear – why should he hide when he’s done absolutely nothing that would necessitate hiding, nothing at all?

 

He can still see the look of shock on the kid’s face as he pushes him away and that was good, added to the reality of the situation. Fortunately, the kid caught on quickly, held his hands up in mock surrender even as Hannibal loudly bemoaned the fact that he’d been trying to steal his wallet. They kept the game going a little longer, just enough for Hannibal to think that he could _now_ be pissed off enough to actually leave. Peck watches him go, tips him a lewd wink as Hannibal turns to leave and it’s perfectly in character, perfectly believable. Around them the dance floor goes back to the dancing and the eye-fucking and the actual fucking and Hannibal lets his eyes drift over the bar as he stalks past – there’s no one watching the kid there, no one wearing leather either but that means nothing. He can’t resist one last glance as he goes, one last hopeful scan of the room and there’s the kid watching him, his playful flirting manner gone, his eyes – those beautiful blue eyes – sombre and _worried_? as they watch him leave.

 

Hannibal turns his back and leaves, hoping he’s done enough to convince whoever it was that needed convincing of whatever they needed convincing of – he’s no longer actually sure who or what that was. He had no choice but to play it out the way he did, though, no choice at all. Kiss that boy and then walk away? Pretend that it was nothing more than a casual encounter on the dance floor? One of many for them both that night? No – there is no way on this earth that he’d ever have been able to do that; if he ever got the chance to kiss that kid there’d be no way he’d be able to stop again, no way at all and, quite frankly, that scares the shit out of him.

 

He turns towards the road with the most brothels on it, the one where he knows he won’t get five metres without some pretty young thing in a kimono or a bikini tossing her sleek, black hair at him and beckoning him into the darkness inside. That’s what he needs tonight, something safe and vulgar and female, something to help take his mind off those confused blue eyes and the memory of all that heat pressing up close to him.

 

It’s only as he lets a perfectly manicured hand lead him in off the street that he realises that Peck must have given up on the Rangers, must have gone for some kind of Special Ops or Army Intelligence or even allowed the CIA to draw him in. Yet again his mind flashes back to that heat, the perfectly gyrating body, the hot breath ghosting across Hannibal's skin leaving fire in its wake and the Major concedes that, considering everything, the boy seems to have made a fortunate choice.

 

But of that’s the case, he closes his mind as his flies are opened, why the hell does he have this cold pain in his chest?


	5. Brief Encounter 5

Hannibal presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and goes over their very limited options one more time. This whole mission has been fucked up from start to finish, they’d been sent in blind, too little information, too little manpower, too little firepower – they’d never stood a chance. But… they are alive, that certainly counts as a positive. They’re fairly unharmed, nothing more than the odd bump and bruise, that’s going to stand them in good stead if they ever get a chance to get away, and they’re together, which Hannibal is the most relieved about, means he can keep an eye on all of his boys. 

They’re in some dark, damp underground cellar but a cellar with modifications. Like the cell they are all cramped inside, and the chains that hang from the wall, and the table over by the door with its leather restraints – wherever they are, it’s not a fucking vacation camp. Trusov is a bastard, they thought that before they came, they know it for sure now, the only question is what he wants them for the most: embarrassing the US Government or squeezing them for what they know. Hannibal isn’t sure which he prefers. 

His men sit or crouch in silence, wondering, as he himself is, how they got into this mess in the first place. It was almost like they were expected, it was supposed to have been a quick in and out, no time for anyone to know they were there, for them to have been anticipated means it has to have been a fellow Ranger who’d tipped Trusov off and that almost doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Hannibal lets his eyes flick from man to man, checking them all out, assessing how ready they are to move if the chance arises. He knows them all well, has been on many missions with them already, many successful missions. All except the new kid, the second Lieutenant, their baby Ranger, the kid that Hannibal had moved heaven and earth to get and to bring out on this first mission… That fact now weighs heavily on his conscience; did he bring the damn kid out here just to die?

The door opens, slow and teasing and Hannibal stands, determined to do all he can to protect his men. It’s not Trusov though and there’s doubt as to whether that’s a good thing or not. Five men slide into the cellar, dressed all in black and heavily armed, they are members of Trusov’s personal guard, furtive and insidious and suddenly Hannibal finds himself wishing that it was Trusov here to play his cards at last. They don’t approach the cell though, they stand back instead, talking in hushed voices, the harsh Russian floating serenely their way and Hannibal wishes he had someone to translate for him. 

He watches carefully, and with mounting dread starts to pick up on the body language of the five black garbed men huddled near the restraining table. They seem to be arguing about something, their voices low and hissed, their hand gestures angry, their eyes flicking backwards and forwards to the men in the cell. Hannibal steps further forward, takes hold of the cold, damp bars and watches, his stomach twisting in unpleasant realisation as the focus of their argument becomes clear. 

He allows his gaze to slip sideways, down to the kid who’s huddled against the far wall, eyes wide in horror as he stares at the black-garbed men and, with a start, Hannibal realises that maybe he does have someone in his team who can understand what’s being said. He looks back, just in time to catch one of the men rubbing at his crotch as he looks their way and the twisting in his gut just intensifies. 

It’s common knowledge that this kind of thing goes on in a war zone; rape against women is a well-documented atrocity and it’s perpetrated against female soldiers and civilians alike. Male rape is far more hush-hush though – it happens, and no one, not the victims or their commanders, ever want to do anything other than sweep it under the rug and never speak of it to anyone. Despite all of that knowledge though, Hannibal had never thought he’d be in the position of having to watch it happen, not to one of his own men.

He wonders what the argument is actually about, who gets first go? Who gets to do it at all? He glances sideways again; he could ask the kid, but he’s not keen on tipping these monkeys off to what they know, and anyway, talking might not be such a good idea at the minute, not when the kid looks like he’s about to wet himself in fear, the hand in his blonde hair squeezing tightly as his wide blue eyes stare in horror across the room. 

Finally, it seems that a decision is reached. Hannibal had watched the argument get more and more heated until one of the guards produced packs of cigarettes that were liberally passed around and, with final lust-fuelled glances at the cell and the cowering Lieutenant, four of the guards leave.

There’s silence in the cellar as the remaining black garbed man retreats to the far wall and waits, watching silently, his eyes never straying from the men in the cage. Finally, he glances at his watch, and with a furtive look at the closed door, slowly makes his way towards them. Hannibal has already checked him out, he’s not bulky but looks strong enough even though the lack of width across his shoulders indicates his youth. He’s packing two visible side-arms as well as something that looks like a Taser and Hannibal would bet that there’s more weapons concealed beneath his black clothing, a knife for sure, these Russians like their knives. 

He’s only a single man though, and there are six of them; six highly skilled Rangers with a hell of a lot at stake here. Hannibal has felt his men ready themselves behind him, is aware of the kid squirming backwards on his butt even further away from the cell door as the man in black approaches. All they need is a moment, a fraction of a second and they can have this guy slumped on the ground with a broken neck as long as he gets close enough, as long as he doesn’t just shoot them with that damn Taser before they get the chance…

“Colonel Smith, sir?”

The voice rocks him, coming, as it has, from the wrong side of the bars. Hannibal can only stare in complete shock as that black garbed figure steps even closer and pins him with those startling eyes of blue. 

“You need to get a move on, sir. I’ve only bought you a little time here, they’ll be back and you need to be long gone by then.”

He moves to unlock the cage, swinging the door open on well-oiled hinges as Hannibal and his men swarm out into the cellar. 

“Peck?” Hannibal is pleased he’s remembered the name but still, meeting the kid here is not what he’d ever imagined. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Peck laughs, even as he hauls a still-terrified Lieutenant McCray to his feet from the back of the cell. “I could ask you the same question, Colonel. I didn’t know you were coming out here, not until you arrived and Trusov was waiting for you.” He’s back out in the cellar then, handing the shaking Lieutenant to Hannibal's XO and his eyes zero back in on Hannibal. “You’ve been set up,” his voice is quiet. “Someone from the US tipped him when you were arriving,” he shrugs, “No idea who.”

“I figured,” Hannibal is keeping pace with Peck whilst he stalks across to another door hewn straight out of the stone walls at the far side of the cellar. “And I’ll get the bastard, but,” his arm shoots out and grabs Peck’s hand as he unlocks the padlock on the tiny metal door, “that doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here.” 

Peck looks at him again, his eyes that incredible shade that sends tiny bolts of electricity right up and down Hannibal’s spine. “Army intelligence,” he offers flatly. “Deep cover. I’m Trusov’s right hand,” Hannibal frowns at the lack of any emotion he can hear in that voice. “He can’t live without me.” The moment drags on as the two stare at each other then Peck’s watch beeps and he springs back into action, almost throwing Hannibal at the door. “You need to get going. Follow this tunnel until it comes out into the woods, then go east for about ten clicks and after that you’ll find a little village. There’s a phone in the post office, it’s a got the blue eagle sign outside, tell them Taras sent you,” his mouth quirks a little. “But make sure you get extracted away from the village; Trusov will kill them all if he thinks they helped you.” 

Hannibal shepherds his men through the tiny door and into the tunnel beyond and Peck tries to push him after them all but he holds his ground, turning back to their saviour, finding him so close they are almost pressed chest to chest. “What about you?” his voice is a low growl as he tries to keep their conversation from his men. “What will Trusov do to you?”

The quirk is back, just for a moment, and then Peck is back to looking damn bleak. “I’ve covered my tracks well enough, set one of those pricks up for a fall instead – he damn well deserves it – and anyway, Trusov’s right hand man remember?”

They stare at each other and Hannibal's next words are so low it’s almost like a breath. “Was this part of your plan?”

Peck laughs, but it’s bitter and more than a little sad. “I might’ve wanted the Rangers, but they didn’t seem to feel the same way about me.” Hannibal's not sure what to say to that, he opens his mouth to ask who the hell’s pushed him back just as Peck shoves him at the door again. “Seriously though, Colonel, you need to go; my ass is on the line here.”

Hannibal doesn’t want to go, not without the kid, but he can see the anxiety creeping into his expression and just has to trust that he’ll be able to keep himself safe – after all, he has done for all this time so far. He nods and ducks through the door into the musty tunnel following the sounds of his men leaving their prison. He thinks of something then, turns to thank the kid for saving their bacon, but the door is already closed and locked and with a sigh, he turns and runs.


	6. Brief Encounter 6

It’s three months after the almost-end in Russia before he gets the news he’s been waiting for and it’s Russ that delivers it; he’s the one that Hannibal mobilised on this when doors were shut over and over in his face in the name of national security.

 

“Peck’s back in the US.”

 

It’s not much but it settles the anxious thrumming that Hannibal's had in his veins for the last few weeks. “Good,” there’s no mistaking the growl in his voice. “Damn kid shouldn’t have ever been out there, barely old enough to shave…”

 

“Thompson said he’s done a great job. They wanted to leave him out there longer.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes flash up, he has his theories about why Peck was so indispensable to Trusov and they’ve kept him awake on many a night off base. The thought of Peck staying out there any longer was abhorrent but he’s home now and Hannibal can congratulate himself on a job well done.

 

The weeks pass again, another three with Peck back on home soil and Hannibal is preparing to ship out again. He’s slightly – what? – _confused_ maybe, certainly not _upset_ , that Peck hasn’t been to see him. He must have heard that it was at Hannibal and Russ’ insistence that got him out of Russia, Hannibal thought that he would have been around to offer his thanks, maybe even offer to buy Hannibal a drink off base one day. It hasn’t happened though, and Hannibal is just starting to realise that maybe he should have been the one offering the drink in thanks for the hand-up out of Trusov’s clutches when he decides that the moment has gone and he’d actually do better just trying to put Peck out of his head for good.

 

But fate, it seems, has other ideas.

 

Hannibal is actually just leaving The Home Depot after stocking up for a few repairs he needs to do before he deploys when he spots a very familiar looking figure heading for a beat-up old car across the lot from him.

 

“Peck!” the word is out of his mouth without thought. “Hey, kid! Wait up!” 

 

The kid doesn’t wait up though, if anything he seems to go even faster, hunching in on himself as he hurries towards the old beater. Hannibal frowns, reassess and then doubles his speed, he knows what he’s seen.

 

“Hey, kid, wait up.” He reaches out and snags a denimed sleeve, he’s wondering if maybe Peck’s got ear buds in or something, didn’t hear him calling, but when he finally turns it’s clear that he’d known Hannibal was there all along.

 

“What?” the word is snapped out so viciously that Hannibal can’t help but recoil slightly and the shock must be written all over his face as Peck seems to misread the expression and winds his attitude down a little before snapping out a reluctant, “Sir,” to the end of his sentence.

 

For a moment they just stand there, Peck clutching a sheaf of papers to his chest, Hannibal with his bag of supplies and then Hannibal takes a breath and starts afresh. “Good to see you, kid,” he shakes a reluctant hand. “Glad you made it out okay.”

 

Peck just nods, awkwardness flowing around them like treacle. “Yeah,” and Hannibal's frown deepens.

 

“Was it tough? I mean, of course it was…” why is this so _hard_? “I mean, Trusov’s a bastard, yeah? I’m hoping you were okay out there.”

 

This time Peck looks up at him and there’s such anger in those eyes. Hannibal's stomach twists; wondering how talking about Trusov could make him so angry, worrying about the subtext there, thinking he was right all along…

 

“Yeah, he’s a bastard all right. A bastard who gets to carry on being just that since I didn’t have enough time to get enough on him to take him down.”

 

“Enough time?” Hannibal’s gut clenches unpleasantly.

 

“Yeah. Since I was pulled out so early.”

 

And now Hannibal has his own anger creeping over the edges of his thoughts. “So early? You shouldn’t have been in there at all without better back-up.”

 

“It was a _good_ mission,” Peck spits back. “I was doing something useful. I was fine.”

 

“You were doing something fucking suicidal,” the anger is stirring inside Hannibal and he’s not even sure why. “And you were not _fine,_ you didn’t join the army to be Trusov’s personal fuck-toy.”

 

Peck flushes crimson and Hannibal’s heart twists as he realises that he’d been bang on with his assessment of the situation out there. “No? What did I join for then?” Peck’s fumbling for his keys now, holding his sheaf of papers to his chest as he digs about in the pocket of his jeans. “To be General Wallis’ fucking _secretary_? To make him coffee and book him in with his chiropodist? To draw up orders for real soldiers doing a real jobs and then spend the afternoon pressing the bastard’s dress uniform?”

 

They’re both horrified by the tears that are standing in Peck’s so-blue eyes and Hannibal is speechless at the avalanche of anger and hurt that’s tumbling from the younger man’s lips.

 

“But that’s all I’m good for, right? Not good enough for the Rangers, not good enough for intelligence without other Colonels from other units causing a fuss, fucking embarrassing me, telling everyone I can’t be out there without a fucking _babysitter_!” His eyes meet Hannibal’s and the accusation there is clear. “Getting me hauled home, thrown out _again_ for someone who doesn’t come with a safety warning. Getting me sent to a fat useless lump like Wallis, a useless lump who feels my ass and my balls every time he gets the chance. And that’s better is it? Better to have to bend over for a bag of jello like him rather than Trusov? At least I was getting Trusov dealt with. At least I was achieving _something_!”

 

All this time, Peck’s still been fumbling in his jeans with his wrong hand, trying to reach his stubborn keys. He switches tactics at the end and tries to swap hands but all he succeeds in doing is losing hold of all his papers and both men drop to their haunches, grabbing errant sheets as they threaten to flip away across the lot.

 

Hannibal is appalled, _appalled_ , at what he’s hearing. He knows the Army isn’t perfect, far from in fact, but to hear this, to see this… His hand reaches out and grabs Peck’s wrist. “Is that what’s happening, kid? Is Wallis expecting favours from you?”

 

Peck stills under Hannibal’s hand and they are frozen in time as the moment stretches on. Two men, temporarily cocooned from the rest of the world in a narrow gap between two parked cars; it feels like a defining juncture in both their lives.  

 

And then Peck sags, his eyes on the tarmac. “No. But I feel he certainly wouldn’t say no if I offered.”

 

 _Who wouldn’t_? Hannibal finds himself thinking but then he sees the sheet of paper in his hand and his frown is back. “Shit, kid…” he hands the crumpled and dirty form back to its owner. “This wasn’t in your plan at all, was it?”

 

Peck just shakes his head. “None of it was.”

 

He stands at that and Hannibal is at a loss as to what to do next. His attempts to help the kid seemed to have back-fired horrifically, he’s moving out himself in a few days, he can’t force other units to take him on, to give the chance that Hannibal knows he needs to shine. “I’m sorry,” he straightens up as Peck finally gets his car open.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

It’s not. But Hannibal doesn’t know what he can do. “You seriously gonna do that?”

 

He nods at the applicant’s pack clutched against Peck’s chest once more and Peck shrugs. “Yeah, probably. It’s a management post and I don’t need any qualifications for it. Not if I pass their tests anyway.”  

 

Hannibal just shakes his head. A soldier like Peck working in The Home Depot? A fucking criminal waste of talent. The young man nods his goodbyes though and slides into his car and Hannibal watches as he backs off and pulls out of the lot, edging out into the traffic before being swallowed up by the swarming masses of the city. He stands there a moment longer and then turns, barely registering the drive with so many thoughts spinning around in his head.

 

He nods to the Lieutenant on duty outside Morrison’s office as he walks straight in, appreciating the man for the job he does for possibly the very first time and then sits in the chair opposite Russ, leaning over the desk as Russ looks up at him, a question in his eyes.

 

“Did you find out why Peck was knocked back from the Rangers?”

 

Russ holds his gaze and nods. “He just wasn’t good enough.”

 

“Bull-shit,” Hannibal has never been able to get a copy of his file, but he damn-well _knows_ potential when he sees it.

 

Russ just laughs and opens his arms wide. “That’s what Collins said, Hannibal, and you know he outranks me on this one.”

 

Russ’ words are a challenge, one that they both know that Hannibal will rise to and rise he does, out of his seat and straight for the door.

 

Russ actually feels a bit sorry for Collins on this one.


	7. Brief Encounter 7

Are you fucking kidding me?

Hannibal stops dead as he walks into the bar, waving his buddies forward as he watches the unfolding scene in the far corner, the very last thing he needs is for anyone he’s out with this evening to see what he’s noticed. 

For a moment, he considers just walking on but the hell with that, he's put a lot of leg work into this one, and he’s damned if he’s going to just let it all crumble into dust around him. He stalks over to the corner, determined to put himself in a place where he can be seen, provide an opportunity for everyone to walk out of this with a little dignity in place. No such luck seems to be forthcoming, however, cool blue eyes flick his way and then are gone again, loud laughter reaching his ears across the bar. He tries to swallow down his anger. 

In five long strides he’s there, mouth pressed together in a thin line, hands held in fists against his thighs, anger locked up tight where it won’t do any harm and, once again, those blue eyes flick his way and are gone again, but this time Hannibal hopes he sees just a flick of concern in their depths.

“Kid.”

It’s about as non-confrontational as he can manage but it still manages to rub Peck up the wrong way a little. That only stokes Hannibal's anger even higher, especially when he doesn’t even get a response; Peck watches him a moment, drains his glass of whatever liquor he’s been pouring down his throat all night and then turns to the girls on either side of him, throwing unsteady arms across their shoulders and breaking out a lewd grin. “Alright, ladies,” they both giggle a little stupidly, “Since the party police have arrived, how about we take this back to your place? I can show you my martial arts moves there…”

Peck gives a demonstration then, just a little jab into mid-air with his hand, but it’s messy and uncoordinated enough to make Hannibal wonder just how much drink he’s managed to get inside him, after all, it’s only a little after twenty-two hundred hours. The sloppy display is irritating enough as far as Hannibal is concerned but for the two guys standing slightly to one side, clutching their beer bottles in white-knuckled death grips as they glare at Peck, it’s obviously infuriating. Hannibal wonders if these girls are their partners or if Peck just muscled in on their marks for the night…

“Oh, Tempy,” Hannibal cringes as one of the girls titters and simpers in response. “You sure you’ll be able to handle us both?”

Peck raises an eyebrow and leans in a little closer, “Oh, yeah, baby,” despite everything, the husky tone of his voice goes straight to Hannibal’s dick. “You bet I am. And I’m sure you’re ready for a real man, yeah? Make a change for you…” he casts a sly look backwards at that, at one of the two seething guys standing there and then everyone moves at once. 

Afterwards, Hannibal isn’t sure how he gets his split lip or Peck his black eye, but he knows he only gets them both out before the cops are called by the very skin of his teeth. The night is mild and the sidewalks busy as they spill outside and Hannibal's grip tightens on Peck’s arm as he feels the urge to flee almost bubbling out of him and instead drags them both through the evening revellers until he finds a quiet side-street and then he bundles them both off the main thorough-fare, hauling a resistant Peck behind him and shoving him hard against the wall.

“What,” he stops and swallows an edge of his anger away, starting again with his voice nothing more than a furious whisper, “the fuck do you think you are doing?”

Peck stares at him, Hannibal can see that quick mind whirling through various smart answers, can see a myriad of emotions tumbling through his eyes and isn’t surprised when anger is the one he settles on. “The fuck do you care?” 

“Mature,” Hannibal shoots back but he knows this kid’s past now, has managed to get hold of his record and the lies it contains, has done his own research and come up with a few slightly more plausible answers as well. He knows that the kid’s spent most of the twenty-four years he’s been alive trying to persuade himself that he doesn’t give a fuck about the hand that he’s been dealt – makes sense that he’d find it hard to accept that anyone else does. “But my opinion isn’t the one you should be concerning yourself with here,” he tightens his grip on the soft blue shirt in his grasp as Peck bucks up against him. 

“No? You think I should care about what Collins thinks of me? Or Wallis? Or any of the pricks currently trying to decide what they’re going to do with me?”

Hannibal considers that for a moment, thinks about the unusual turn of phrase and then shakes his head, the anger still bristling through him. “Of course you should be bothered what they think about you – what kind of idiot wouldn’t be?” Peck opens his mouth to complain but Hannibal pushes straight on. “Still not what I’m talking about though.” Peck’s mouth shuts with a snap and Hannibal lets the moment pull on, lets his anger melt away, lets the pity and the frustration well up in its place and his grip on the crumpled shirt lighten a little. “I’m talking about yourself – why don’t you care what you’re doing here?” 

It’s almost comical, the way that the confusion washes over Peck’s face and again Hannibal thinks that that’s more than a little tragic; self-respect is obviously a new and frightening concept for the kid. Unsurprisingly though, he doesn’t really feel like he wants to engage that closely with the thought and, almost instantly, tries to flee from Hannibal's grasp once more. 

“Give me a fucking break and spare me all your Obi-Wan Kenobi crap,” the struggles are alcohol fuelled and ineffective. “What I’m doing here is getting out, a long, slow slide into nothing. You got a problem with me having a little fun on my way out the door?”

It’s Hannibal’s turn to wear the confusion then – for a second he’s actually stunned into silence and then all of that fades away to be replaced by a resurgence of the burning anger. “A slide into nothing? Have a little fun out of the door? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My career. The end of it. Swapping Uncle Sam for Home Depot,” he shrugs in an infuriatingly nonchalant manner and Hannibal's patience finally snaps, he surges forward and pins the younger man up against the wall by his neck, his large hand pressing down, feeling a frightened pulse jumping against his skin.

“You stupid, fucking…” words fail him, he can’t believe after everything, everything, this kid has been through to try and get into the Rangers he’d let it all go like this, let it all fall away for nothing. “That’s not what this is!” Peck’s fingers are scrabbling ineffectively against his iron-clad grip. “Think about it! They’ve said no to you before, why would they take that back? Why would they suddenly decide to give you a go, let you show them what you’ve got to offer if all they were doing was marking your time until you leave? Do you have any idea how much money it costs to train a Ranger? Any idea of the time and effort commitment that’s needed?” he shakes his head, infuriated. “And you’re happy to throw it all away on cheap booze and cheaper women?” 

Peck is red in the face, his eyes are watering and Hannibal yanks his hand away listening with a shadow of concern to the desperate breaths that the kid pulls in, the way he can see him shaking in the darkness of the side-street and wonders, for about the hundredth time since that very first meeting, what it is about this boy that draws him in so much. He needs to walk away, that much is clear to him at least. He should turn around right this second and walk away, he’s done what he can, tried to make amends for the damage he did over Trusov, there’s nothing more he can do now – the kid has to stand on his own two feet.

He turns to do just that and then Peck’s voice, low and rasping, draws him to a stop. “They have no intention of ever letting me through Ranger selection.” 

He stands, considers, and then turns back again, wondering, despite himself. “Why do you say that?”

Peck is hunched over, his hands on his neck, massaging. “Collins hates me. He’s the one who knocked me back, he didn’t want to give me this chance; I know you – your General Morrison – forced him to take me on.” He pulls himself back to his full height, moves his hand away from his neck and stares Hannibal right in the eye. “He’s done nothing but piss on me ever since. He’s taken down my scores, made me repeat exercises I’ve already passed, withdrawn my privileges…” he shakes his head. “I’m not graduating Ranger school, not with Collins around.”

They watch each other in the dark then Hannibal takes a step back in. “You can’t hack it, kid?”

Peck frowns, “What?”

“The hazing. You can’t hack it?” He can see Peck bristle at that. 

“I can hack the hazing, sir,” the words are almost spat out. “But what I can’t hack is that total waste of my time that this is. Three months of that – for nothing?” he shakes his head. “Just not happening.” 

Hannibal knows that this kid is bright, knows he’s fast and fluid in his thinking – but this? This is bullshit. How can he be so damn naïve? Is his faith the upper ranks that poor? “You think that?” it’s all Hannibal can find to say. “You actually think that’s what’s gonna happen here?” Peck’s back to blinking at him and Hannibal has to bite his tongue before he just adds to all the negativity the kid’s got going on, instead, he takes a big breath and aims for calm. “Collins does not run the whole show you know, kid,” Peck just frowns at him. “You think he can do that? Assess every single candidate on every single exercise? Unlawfully mark you down without anyone noticing? You seriously that stupid?”

Peck’s flush deepens. “No. But then he wouldn’t have to, would he? Not if he makes me quit first.”

“Makes you quit?” Hannibal knows he’s bog-eyed at that. “No one’s ever going to make you quit at anything, kid. Any time you quit, it’s your decision and yours alone. You ever thought of that?” Peck’s silence is his answers and he pushes on. “Maybe Collins does want you out, maybe he doesn’t think you’ve got what it takes to be a Ranger so what you gonna do about that then? Prove him right? Let him have his own way? Let him go back to Morrison with a fucking great big told-you-so cake?”

Peck’s lip curls into a sneer, “Oh, so this is just about you and Mor-”

“No,” Hannibal’s hand in his chest slams him back into the wall and steals his words all in one go. “It’s nothing to do with any of that and everything to do with you waiting six fucking years for a chance that you’re now just going to flush down the pisser, just ‘cause you can’t handle a bit of hard work and injustice.”

“I can handle that just fine.”

“Yeah?” Hannibal's finger prods him hard in the sternum. “Prove it then. Prove it to Collins, prove it to me, prove it to Morrison, but most of all, prove it to your fucking self.”

A silence falls in the alleyway. Hannibal's finger is still pressed to the centre of the kid’s chest and he can feel his heart hammering away inside his chest – so full of life, so full of promise. They stare at each other, two sets of blue eyes locked together and Hannibal finds he can’t look away, can’t walk away, can’t do anything but feel himself drawing closer to the infuriating young man in front of him. 

“I don’t know if I can.”

The words are so low that Hannibal only knows they’re real because he feels them drift over his lips. “You can,” he’s never been so sure of anything before in his whole life. “But you need to believe that yourself; I can’t do it for you.”

Peck licks his lips and Hannibal's eyes are drawn downwards. “Do you, though?” this time he can watch the words drift out. “Believe in me?”

“Always,” it’s an instantaneous answer.

Time circles on, like it tends to when it’s the last thing you want and Peck slumps backward, the wall taking his weight, his eyes closing and opportunity closing with them. Hannibal tries not to sigh and takes a step back, “What have you got on in the morning?” he asks, even though he knows, even though it’s what started this whole scene off in the first place. 

Peck’s eyes stay closed. “Navigation test.”

“What time start?”

“0400.”

Hannibal looks at his watch and bites back a sigh, “About five hours. How much have you had to drink?” 

Peck’s eyes open and they’re full of defeat. “Enough,” but Hannibal just shakes his head, he’s not come this far, dragged the kid this way along the road, for nothing.

“Bullshit, come on,” getting hold of the kid’s arm again they’re out of the side-road and back on the sidewalk in a moment.

“Wait,” Peck might be complaining, but he’s sure as hell not resisting, “Where are we going?”

“Coffee,” Hannibal steers him towards an all-nighter. “And you can tell me what you know about night-navigation then I’m taking you back to base, signing you in and you set yourself an alarm, get some sleep, get out there in the morning and fucking do it – you got that, kid?”

They’re at the door now and they stop, close together, Peck’s eyes with more life in them than Hannibal has seen in a long while and then he smiles, a most incredible smile even though there’s still the edges of fear around it all. “Yes, sir, Colonel Smith, sir,” he even pops a salute and Hannibal laughs a little before opening the door and pushing them both inside.

“Call me Hannibal, kid,” he steers them to a table. 

Yeah, maybe he has got it. 

Maybe.


	8. Brief Encounter 8

Hannibal grits his teeth, kicking the door open as he enters and eyeing up the precariously wobbling sacks of groceries in his arms as he shuffles, crab-like into the room. Too late, he realises that the table is already full of the kit he was sorting, and the counters are spread with the detritus of lunch and so he makes his way to the drainer, bending at the knee to try and set the sacks down with some degree of success.

 

At first, he thinks he’s made it and starts to straighten up but inside one of the sacks, a milk carton rebels against him and starts to lean, tugging everything else with it. Hannibal notices and shoots out a hand to grab at the offending object but his back gives off a particularly painful twinge at just the wrong time to makes him jerk sideways, lose his aim and instead of steadying the sack, he just sends it pitching into a sink full of dirty dishes, dragging its mate along with it.

 

The pain in his back makes a wave of nausea rear up in Hannibal's gut and he has to stand for a moment, hands gripping the edge of the counter in a white-knuckled death-grip, eyes screwed tightly shut, until it recedes enough to allow him to think again. By the time that’s done, his sink is filled with a jumbled mess of dishes, groceries and dirty cold water and he has to bite back his original impulse to just throw it all in the damn garbage can.

 

He doesn’t though, that’s not the Hannibal Smith way, no matter how much pain he’s in and it takes more than an hour before the little kitchen is put to rights again. After that, there’s a dilemma to be solved. It’s pressing on for 1700hrs and Hannibal is due at a retirement bash at a little after 1900. He needs a shower and to get changed, needs to dig out that bottle of Gold that he bought months ago for this very occasion and be ready when the taxi comes for him. Problem is though, and it’s a huge problem that’s really starting to drag Hannibal down, he doesn’t think he can do any of those things, not when his back is screaming in pain the way that it is and his legs are trembling with the effort of just holding him up and keeping his back still and steady.

 

He needs to lie down, he needs to rest but, and here’s the absolute rub of it all, he hasn’t found a position he’s comfortable in for almost two weeks now, ever since he wrenched his back catching Pvt. Mullaney as he pitched sideways off that bridge in Malawi. “It’ll heal,” he’s been told, “keep off it, rest. You’ll be back to it in about a month.” But Hannibal doesn’t do ‘rest’ well, especially when that rest is so damn uncomfortable.

 

He’s running on empty though, weeks of broken sleep and days spent on his feet are taking their toll and he knows he just can’t do it without a break, wouldn’t be doing it at all if it wasn’t General Marty White’s retirement, one of young John Smith’s very first COs.

 

So – the floor then? The bed is no good, too soft and at this moment in time he can’t even start to think of climbing the narrow stairs. The sofa is also out, it’s deep and can swallow a man whole and he really should have got himself a new one years ago but really, he’s not here that much so it seemed a waste.

 

The floor it is, then. He shuffles out of the kitchen and grits his teeth again as he starts the slow journey down. Onto his knees first, back rigid like a poker, hands onto the floor and now, the worst part, lowering himself down onto his side, using the side of the sofa to help him, pushing and tugging and sweating and swearing until, finally, he’s flat on his back, breath heavy in his chest and – if his back feels no better – at least his legs are getting a chance to uncramp and relax. He realises he needs to be grateful for small mercies.

 

He’s so exhausted that he falls asleep almost immediately, but, as has been the case these last couple of days, the respite doesn’t last long and soon the pain wakes him again, and, with a groan, he uses the table leg to haul himself onto his side. Here he pauses, breathing hard again as he contemplates this mess he’s found himself in.

 

It won’t do, that’s the truth of it all, it simply won’t do. Hannibal has plans that need attending to in his life, plans for his team, plans for his career, plans for the men in his service and he can’t do any of that laid up at home with an excruciatingly painful back. Problem is though, he just doesn’t see a way forward. He’s spoken to three different doctors, all of whom have told him the same thing, rest, take it easy and you will heal. They just don’t know how hard that is.

 

Hannibal's already missed out, let things slide. It was Mickey Jinks’ wedding the third day after they landed back in the States and he simply couldn’t even move enough to get dressed for that. He’s missed a mission with his team, they actually had to go without him, Rueben, his XO taking the lead on that one, he’s also missed an essential training exercise in Vietnam and had to dictate a recommendation for promotion for his Captain as the closing date was looming closer.

 

The worst thing though, and he kind of hates himself a little for even thinking this, the very worst thing about all of this is that he’s missed the opportunity to bring one of the newly qualified Rangers on-board his team.

 

They don’t need a new guy, they’re running at capacity as it is, but Hannibal has always allowed himself a bit of flexibility if the right candidate came along and for this cohort, he’d been hopeful that the right candidate was there, ready and waiting, just for him.

 

He hasn’t seen Peck since that late night/early morning when he was desperately trying to sober the kid up before he had to go out on manoeuvres. He must have passed the night hike though, Hannibal had bumped into an old friend from his own training days on Ascension Island who’d just come from Benning and told Hannibal that Peck, or ‘Face’ as he was known to the cohort, was still there and holding his own – just about – despite being the recipient of some pretty negative attention from General Collins.

 

The report had been a relief to Hannibal who had never really trusted that the kid still wouldn’t just up and leave. But it had also reinforced how close to the edge things were for him, how Collins still seemed to be desperate to kick him out and how at the mercy of his own resilience the kid was. Hannibal knew only too well that there wasn’t that much resilience to fall back on.

 

But has had to hope that Peck, _Face_ , has passed, that at the end of it all there’s a place for him on a good team and that the kid will finally get what he’s wanted since the age of about sixteen. It’s just a shame, a damn shame, that Hannibal hadn’t been there to pick him up for _his_ team.

 

Even now, a good ten days after the new Rangers were allocated, Hannibal is still, quietly fuming over it all. Fuming with himself. He’d been in such pain, back then it had literally hurt to take a breath, and he’d let the doctors shoot him up with whatever they had suggested. The pain went, but so did everything else and Hannibal had spent three days in a cloudy fugue. After that, after he’d hauled himself clear and realised what he’d missed, how the neat form he’d filled out in anticipation of getting Peck drafted his way was still sitting, unused, in his desk, he hasn’t taken another single shot or tablet of pain relief, not a damn one. In a way, it’s his own version of self-flagellation.

 

He looks at his wrist watch and sighs – he needs to get going if he’s going to get to this party at all.

 

\-------------------

 

The stairs are a challenge, the shower is difficult, the cab ride is agonising but the look on Marty’s face when Hannibal shuffles into the party room is worth it all, even if the welcoming hug just wakes all that pain up once more.

 

“Jonny!” his old friend’s face is split into a huge grin. “So glad you could make it! I’d heard you were laid up, in a pretty bad way, thought you wouldn’t be here.”

 

“As if I’d miss this,” Hannibal gritted his teeth as he bent to press a kiss on Marty’s wife, Lisa’s, cheek. “It’s not every day we get to get rid of some of the worst of the dead wood.”

 

Marty laughs out loud and for a terrifying minute, Hannibal fears he’s going to be clapped on the back in friendly retribution but fortunately, Lisa seems far more astute, or sober maybe, than her husband. “Careful with him,” she admonishes, “can’t you see he’s hurting?”

 

Hannibal doesn’t have it in him to respond – she’s perfectly correct after all – he can hardly think around the pain.

 

“Here,” an arm is threaded through his and Hannibal is led gently to the side. “You want to sit in one of these chairs?” there are some upright wooden ones dotted about the faux-historic room and Hannibal nods weakly. “There’s room at Sam’s table, that okay?” That was perfect, Sam Wilson is another old friend, good, steady, free of the Army now for three years, a catch up would be great.

 

It takes about twenty minutes, and two whiskeys, to be free enough of the pain to talk properly and the relief Hannibal feels is huge. Soon, he even forgets how much pain he’s been in and how much his life sucks at the moment and instead just enjoys the banter with old friends he’s not seen in years. The drinks flow, the chat loudens and the room fills and then Hannibal looks around and his heart does this weird flip-flop thing.

 

“Hey,” he tugs on Sam’s arm and nods stiffly at the bar. “Who’s that there? Just getting served, you know him?”

 

Sam leans round and looks. “Think so, yeah. Name’s Cruz, he was a Major when I was here, don’t know what he is now.”

 

“Colonel,” another voice helpfully supplies. “Newly minted, just got himself a Ranger team.”

 

“Is that who he’s with?” for some reason Hannibal feels the words heavily on his tongue.

 

“Some of them, yeah.”

 

There was maybe eight men and a woman at the bar and the dark-haired Cruz is passing them all a beer and a chaser. They’re all laughing and smiling, all look at ease and happy with the world, especially the young man on the end with his honey coloured hair and the brightest blue eyes that Hannibal has even seen.

 

Once all the drinks have been handed out and Cruz has settled the bill, the team turn and head to the back of the room and the few remaining tables. Hannibal watches in silence as they file past him, a few of them nodding in greeting but his own eyes remain on the one at the back, the one he’d hoped to get in his own team one day, the one he’s lost for no other reason than his own frailties.

 

It’s clear the second the kid spots him, that easy smile vanishes to be replaced by something else, something Hannibal can’t quite pinpoint but certainly isn’t pleasant and then it’s all locked away again behind a perfectly arranged mask. Face indeed – perfect choice.

 

Hannibal's expecting him to stop and chat, kid has to walk right past him after all, but it doesn’t happen that way. Face takes a step in, nods once at Hannibal then looks up again, right over his head at the retreating backs of his new team mates and keeps moving, hustling himself away. Hannibal is too stunned to speak, too stunned to do anything but watch as he walks by and is swallowed up the crowd once more.

 

After that the evening isn’t half as pleasurable as it had been. Hannibal keeps twisting to try and look across in the direction the kid went and that just wakes up the pain so much that it can be felt over all the alcohol he’s consumed. It must show on his face as Sam asks him if he’s okay and calls him a cab when he says he isn’t. He needs helping up and into the car when it arrives and Hannibal can feel himself almost dying with the embarrassment of it all.

 

When he finally gets into the house he just collapses back onto the floor on the front room and spends the whole night there, snatching sleep in fits and starts in between shivering with the cold. It isn’t a pleasant night and he spends a lot of it awake, feeling the pain thrumming up and down his spine and wondering what the hell is _wrong_ , why he’s so petty and shallow that he can’t just be happy for the kid in finally making the Rangers and getting himself a decent team.

 

___________________

 

The party puts him back a bit and at his next weekly check-up his doctor threatens with readmitting him to hospital if he doesn’t follow his recuperation orders with more care and accuracy. Hannibal takes the dressing down in silence, he knows he’s edging around the fringes of injury-related depression here and can’t find it in him to even care. The cab drops him off outside his house again and he climbs stiffly out of the front seat to find himself faced with two burley delivery men.

 

“Colonel Smith?” Hannibal nods through the waves of pain brought on from the journey. “Sign here please.” He signs even as he wonders what he’s had delivered – can’t think of anything he’s had on order, hopes it’s nothing he’s going to have move about.

 

“Here’s your keys back,” Hannibal accepts the door keys thrust his way but alarm bells are now starting to ring in his head.

 

“Keys?” the keys in his hand are indeed his, the spare set that usually hang in his key cupboard. “Who the fuck gave you my keys?”

 

One of the delivery men glances back over his shoulder at him but doesn’t stop walking. “I dunno,” sounds equally like he doesn’t care either. “Your secretary?”

 

They climb into their lorry and drive off and Hannibal frowns after them. He doesn’t have a fucking secretary.

 

He wishes for a sidearm as he hobbles towards his front door, but acknowledges that, if anyone wanted to cause him damage at the minute, all they would actually have to do is blow on him, he’d probably keel right over. He struggles in over the doorstep and is immediately assailed with the smell of ‘new’. He keeps going, down the hallway, a glance into the empty kitchen, the front room and then, here the new smell is so much stronger, into the empty room at the back that a family might use for dining. He stops still and stares, unsure what he’s seeing and why. There’s a brochure though, set out right where he’d see it and he reaches out, picks it up and the edges of a smile tug at his mouth.

 

A fully adjustable electronically controlled bed. Massage option included. Heating and cooling system. Fully sprung mattress with a six inch topping of NASA memory foam. A bold claim, “The best relief for back pain that money can buy”.

 

Hannibal's eyes narrow as a thought strikes him and he takes up the other piece of paper laid carefully on the freshly made bed. It’s a delivery note, all his details set out nice and clearly and in the area for how much is owed, just the two words, ‘Fully paid’.

 

He feels another sheet of paper below, flicks it over wondering if this will cast any light onto this mystery and, for the second time in a week, his heart flip-flops against his ribs. The paper in his hand has nothing to do with the bed, it’s a staffing request. _His_ staffing request, the one he’d filled out before going to Malawi, the request for a newly graduated Ranger to join his team, one specific newly-graduated Ranger at that, the name, Lieutenant Templeton Peck, written out in his own messy scrawl right in front of him.

 

That’s not the end of it though – not by a long shot. Collins’ signature is there as well, signing Peck off from training, Cruz’s as well, passing him on and, then, finally the kid’s, _Face’s_ , accepting his new assignment in Hannibal’s team. The whole thing is there, completed, ready and just waiting for Hannibal to sign as well, along with a Post-It note on the back, a neat, cursive hand that just states that a courier is coming for the form at 1700 and if Hannibal _wants_ to sign it, please could he do it by then?

 

Hannibal stares at the Post-It for a long, long, while before his smile is back, even wider than before, properly in evidence for the first time in three weeks, and he’s looking around for a pen.


	9. Brief Encounter 9

Hospitals are never one of Hannibal’s favourite places to spend time, but field hospitals, field hospitals on a busy night – well they have to be the absolute worst.

And this night is absolute worst as well. Hannibal’s unit have been under heavy fire, were ambushed as they made their way home from a mission, he’s got three in here, another two walking wounded and three still out there, unaccounted for in the melee and he’s frantically hoping that he doesn’t have to start writing letters home before the sun comes up.

He stalks out into the night, banging through the doors and letting the sounds of organised chaos wash over him. He’s supposed to stay in now, other teams have headed out, fresh bodies and fresh minds, but there is no way in hell that Hannibal can sit here and sip his whisky and wait for someone else to bring the rest of his boys in. He never leaves a man behind. So – he’s heading out once more, he’s got himself a jeep and he’s going to head out into the chaos and attach himself to another team, which ever one it is that’s closest to where he last saw the rest of his unit, and he’ll damn well stay there until he finds what it is he needs to find.

It’s been a tough couple of months. His back is far from perfect even now, it still pulls and twinges and Hannibal knows he’s walking stiffly. They also never got Peck, Face, drafted their way fast enough to have him ready for this mission. Cruz’s team fell one short and the man called Hannibal up and asked if he could hang onto the kid for another few weeks, there was no way on Earth that Hannibal wanted to say yes but what could he do? He’d done his research and knew that the man was solid, he’d asked Hannibal, man-to man as a favour, saying no would have been churlish and petty. It’s what Hannibal had wanted to do though.

But he hadn’t, he’d manned up and given his permission. He’d made sure to call the kid up though and explain the change in circumstance himself, the last thing he’d needed was for Face to think he wasn’t wanted and go into a snit over it all, told him to hang tight in the States and that Hannibal would pick him up once they were home again. He had been able to tell that Face was less than thrilled, but was pleased to see the maturity in him that enabled him to suck it up and take it all on the chin; the kid was going to work out just fine, Hannibal had waited long enough to get him on board, a few more weeks wouldn’t hurt.

That’s what Hannibal had thought but things had dragged on longer than expected over here and now this. He carefully folds himself into the jeep, unable to keep the dark thoughts from circling through his head. He’s really up against it here, he knows going out on his own is far from the best idea but he also knows he’s got a responsibility to fulfil here; he took those boys out and he absolutely won’t rest until he brings them back again, every last one of them. And if the worst really and truly comes to the worst, then at least Face will be okay, Cruz is a good man, a good leader, the kid will do more than okay. Hannibal wonders what the hell is wrong with him when, faced with his own mortality, all he can think about is whether a man he barely knows will be alright without him.

Crazy.

He gets to the gate and nods for it to be opened and all other thoughts then flee his mind as he has to focus everything he has on just staying alive. 

It’s not an easy job. The night is thick with smoke and fog and then, just to make everything that little bit worse, torrential rain. Hannibal just about gets to where he wants to be before his jeep slides off the road and has a close encounter with a solid tree. He sets off on foot then and meets another unit who give him some good news: his three boys are alive and well but resisting coming back to base as they’re not sure on the position of the rest of their team. Hannibal's heart swells with pride and he sets off to their last known position, knowing their comms are down and determining to bring them home in person. Incredibly he finds them, the rain seems to have done a far better job of driving away the enemy than their own guns and rockets had done and so they turn and start making their way back to base and that’s where it truly gets awful.

Hannibal finds out later that it’s a landslip that takes him, sweeps him straight off his feet and over the lip of the road before swirling him up in a terrifying mix of mud and water, debris and rock and dumping him at the side of a roaring torrent. The rushing water drowns everything else out and, thinking that he’s been caught by a IED and sent straight to hell, Hannibal can’t fight the blackness that swallows him whole. 

___________

He’s there for a long time, in that cold, dark prison of mud, wondering if the water will rise even further and snuff him out completely, wondering if the mud will shift and crush the life and air out of him, wondering if he’s not dead already, wondering how long he’ll last if not.

A knife of light splits the darkness and Hannibal wonders if it’s lightning. It’s not, he can see that now, it’s a flashlight or a searchlight and it’s heading his way so he tries to shift from under the mud, would prefer dying here right now with a bullet or the raging water rather than being taken by the enemy. He can’t move though, he’s pinned by all the mud, even his hands won’t move and then he realises that it’s pointless anyway, that he really is dead already as the face that peers worriedly down on him in the night is the one face that can’t possibly be with him right now. Laughing at his frailties and the tricks his dead mind can play on him, Hannibal lets himself slip into the blackness once more.

_________________

It’s grey when he wakes up again and he’s wondering if that’s any better when he realises that he’s free of the cloying mud and its damp embrace, far from the roaring and rushing of the water although it’s still there in the background and he’s warm, warmer than he was at any rate although that’s not much to go on. He twists his neck to try and look around him but it sends shards of hot agony up and down his body and he sucks in a breath of pain. 

“Hey, hey… easy there, sir…”

That voice… A face leans into his tunnel of vision and he blinks as it struggles into focus, surely not? Maybe he’s dead after all?

“You with me, sir?” He just blinks in shock, trying to piece it all together and stares upwards as the face above him creases into concern. “Can you hear me? Sir? Hannibal?”

There’s a tear in that last word and a warm hand, shaking slightly that presses into his check and with a rush he lurches back into the real world. 

“Your eyes are so blue.”

It shocks them both a little but then Face huffs out a little laugh, his cheeks pinking up under all the mud even as chooses to ignore Hannibal's blurry opener. “Glad to see you back with me, there.”

Hannibal tries to sit up but strong arms and a wave of pain keep him down. 

“No, boss,” and how wonderful does that word sound coming from those lips? “You need to keep still, we’re in a pretty precarious position here.”

And it’s that that finally secures Hannibal back to planet Earth, the reminder that there’s danger here and that he, and Face now, are very much still in the thick of it all. 

“Report, Lieutenant,” and Face snaps into soldier mode as well, Hannibal can almost feel him straightening into a semblance of attention underneath him. 

“We’re still in the ravine, sir, but I’ve dragged us clear of the rising water and hopefully shifted us out of sight – covered our tracks too. I don’t think you’re that badly injured but I think it would be a good idea to keep still and try not to twist your back until we can get it looked at properly. I’ve radioed in our position and there’s a unit on standby to get us out but they think it’ll take a while to hoist us free and so they’d rather wait until night fall as there are still hostile units close by. If we’re compromised though, we need to radio in asap and they’ll come for us. I’ve got plenty of rations if you’re hungry, water too and pain meds, and a couple more space blankets if you’re cold. I’m also armed and have plenty of spare ammo. You didn’t have any of your kit on when I found you – oh! And your men, they were picked up just after the landslip hit you, made it back to base just fine and gave a good enough position that I was able to find you in just a couple of hours.”

Hannibal blinks at him and wonders who this composed, controlled, freakily efficient soldier is but then he just spends a moment congratulating himself on his brilliant instincts where this kid is concerned and asks the question that’s really been needling him. “What are you even doing here?”

He feels the stiffening again and realises that it’s nothing to do with coming to attention and everything to do with a perceived slight and then Face is talking again, his voice clipped of all emotion. “I was just kicking my heels, Stateside, boss. Cruz had his new guys and didn’t need me anymore and I thought you might appreciate the extra body. I got myself a lift out here and landed in the middle of a huge cluster-fuck. They said you were missing and then your boys came in with a position and I just thought I’d head out and look for you.”

“You get permission for that then, son?”

“The General said I could fly out here,” there was a definite defensive edge to that reply. 

“And to come out looking for me?”

“Did you clear it before you went out after your team?” 

That’s blatant insubordination and a challenge to boot but Hannibal can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of him. “No…” he admits and he fixes the kid’s scowling face with a penetrative stare, “And don’t get me wrong – I’m pleased you’re here kid, real pleased. And not just ‘cause you’ve saved my life. Again.” 

Face doesn’t answer, but Hannibal can feel a little of that defensive tension creep out of his body and with the warmth of the space blanket lulling him, he slips away again into a steady sleep. 

______________

He’s warm when he wakes up again, hot actually. Or is he cold? It’s a little hard to tell. He cracks an eye open, sees everything in painful shards of grey and white and quickly screws it shut again. That glimpse was enough though, enough to tell him he’s still in that damn ravine but he hasn’t seen the kid yet and he suffers a moment’s panic. What if he’d dreamt him? What if he's here on his own? What if he’s not going to be rescued? What if he just dies here, all alone?

But then there’s a voice and it’s definitely Face so that’s good, but then who is he talking to? And why is every word he’s saying dripping in anxiety? It’s a huge effort but Hannibal forces himself to tune in a little.

“I didn’t see it at first, there was too much mud and then I used the space wrap…”

Didn’t see what? Hannibal wonders. There’s another voice then, tinny and distorted, ah, radio, but Hannibal can’t make out what the reply is. 

“It’s not bleeding now, but it’s infected and he’s running a fever – burning up.”

Sounds nasty. Hannibal knows how bad an infection can be without any drugs to control it and wonders who this poor guy is. 

“I don’t know, I seriously don’t. I mean…” he can imagine Face shaking his head in exasperation and the thought makes him smile a little. “How many hours is that? Six? Seriously, I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s no one around us, I’ve checked, you really need to come now.”

Hannibal's smile fades as he registers how scared Face sounds and he knows that that’s not at all good. With immense effort he lifts what feels like a leaden limb and stretches his finger the kid’s way, trying to reach him, trying to offer some comfort. He wants to speak as well, but his mouth feels like it’s lined in velvet and all that ends up coming out is a pained rasp. 

He feels it though, as Face’s eyes land on him, and the urgent tone in the kid’s voice trebles. “That’s fine, send that, I’m okay, I’ll walk out, I walked in after all. Nine minutes? We’ll be ready. I gotta go, the boss needs me.”

Hannibal’s already flopped back onto the stony ground, barely even feeling the way that his head jars at the contact. He wonders how Face knows he needs him, wonders if the kid has any idea at all how much he’s wormed his way into Hannibal’s very consciousness, how Hannibal doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live without that presence near him, at his side, in his bed, wound up tightly in his heart. And then he wonders if that’s the first time he’s ever really acknowledged that to himself.

“Hannibal? Boss? You okay?”

He feels hands on him, blessedly cool and soothing but there’s not a single part of his body willing to follow his commands. It’s a mutiny, he realises and feels a tinge of worry as he works out that everything is starting to shut down on him. Not his hearing though, or his sense of feeling as those wonderful hands continue to stroke and comfort, words float out into the afternoon and weave through the heat and confusion. 

“- you can’t leave me,” Hannibal wonders if he has any choice in that. “What would I do? Where would I go? All my life, ever since I saw you in that crappy careers convention, all I’ve ever wanted to do is serve at your side, be at your side.”

Now, that is a revelation and Hannibal feels it lift his spirits even as he starts to drift through a long, dark tunnel. 

“I felt something that day when I met first you,” but Face is still talking and the words are like a tether to his drifting. “It was like everything clicked together, like I was supposed to meet you and you were supposed to shape the rest of my life.”

Yes! Hannibal wants to shout. I felt that too! I think that too! There isn’t a week of his life, since that very first day, when Hannibal hasn’t thought about this kid, wondered about him, speculated about him – schemed and plotted for him. How nice to find that Face feels the same way – he’s never been entirely sure. 

But, a sobering thought bursts Hannibal’s wonderful bubble of realisation, why isn’t the kid happy then? Why isn’t he jumping stars and whooping from the rooftops? Isn’t this what he wants?

“Oh, God, Hannibal – I can’t lose you.”

Ah, yes – the losing. Hannibal can feel it now, the pull of the tide is strong, far stronger than the effect of Face’s words and it starts to worry him. What if he can’t fight this off? What if it drags him away and makes him leave the kid behind? What would Face do?

It’s the pressure in his ears he feels first, that, just before the steady, familiar thrumming announces the arrival of their ride home and the relief he feels is tempered by something he can’t quite place.

“Oh, thank God,” the relief is Face’s voice is obvious though. “They’re here, they’re going to get you out now. Winch a basket down to take you up – it might get a little hairy.”

Hannibal’s not bothered about that, not even bothered by the pain that roars through his leg as Face’s strong arms manhandle him up into the air – it feels a million miles away anyway. No, something else is bothering him, making him reluctant to leave, reluctant to be carted away by this pounding bird above him. He has little in the way of choice though, he feels the moment that Face deposits him into the swinging cradle, feels the bite of the straps as they are tightened up and down his body. He feels that hand, one last time, as it sweeps over his burning face and then hears the words, almost lost in the beating of the bird above them. 

“I love you, John. Please be safe.”

Be safe… With a swing he’s airborne and then it hits him, fragments of a one sided conversation, snatches of truth temporarily lost in his fevered mind. 

I’m okay, I’ll walk out.

Walk out. He’ll walk out? 

Face wasn’t coming with them. Face wasn’t getting his rescue. Face had forgone the chance of his own salvation simply to get Hannibal a faster med-evac.

Face had been worried that Hannibal would leave him and now he had – and if the kid didn’t make it out after him, then what was he supposed to do? 

He tries to sit up but the straps are too tight and the swinging is making him nauseous and then there’s a jerk and everything goes quiet and, just as a voice at his ear shouts, “Colonel Smith?” the draw of the current becomes too strong and Hannibal slides right into its grip the final thought in his conscious mind, Face.


	10. Brief Encounter

It’s only when Face gets to the front door of his apartment block that he realises he’s bought far too many groceries. The sacks in his arms are starting to sag and pull – he can feel the condensation from the ice cream he’s bought soaking into the paper – and he wishes he’d had it in him to plan ahead. He tries to get both sacks into one arm, tries to kind of jam them against the door as he roots in his pocket for a key, but gravity – and wet paper – were always going to win and, just as he gets the door to swing inwards, everything follows it and a week’s worth of groceries tumble all over the lobby carpet.

For a moment he just stands, staring, almost impassively, at the selection of food he’s unconsciously bought: peanut butter, one smooth, one crunchy, two bags of Reece’s cups, two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, dried mac ‘n’ cheese, a variety of sandwich makers, two boxes of Frosted Flakes, three varieties of Pop Tarts, grape jelly, pancakes, coffee – lots of coffee – beer, chips… the list goes on and his cheeks colour. 

He knows what this this – comfort food – and what the hell is wrong with him? He hasn’t eaten like this since… well, ever really. He hadn’t been able to afford it when he was a teenager and since he’s had the money he’s also had better sense. Or so it would seem. Until now.

This business with Hannibal has floored him and the colour in his cheeks doubles as he thinks back to what he said to the man, the God, as that chopper had lifted him to safety. He’d been so worried, so panicked, that he’d just let his mouth run away with him. Something in the back of his head was telling him he’d never see Hannibal again, that something would happen to one or both of them and that this was goodbye. Faced with that choice, he’d known he’d never forgive himself for not saying anything and gone for it, blurting his deepest feelings out to his Commanding Officer as he hung in a rescue basket underneath a swaying chopper. 

Was there anything more pathetic he could have managed?

He could only hope that the guy was as out of it as he’d looked and that was something else that Face could have kicked himself for. The man had a gash in the back of his thing like the Grand Canyon – how could Face have missed it? Yes, there was the mud which seemed to have sealed the wound at first and then there were all the blankets that Face kept wrapping around them to try and stop the shivers but still… he’d done his field First Aid, he should have done better. 

So, Face had tramped back alone, anger and fear gnawing at him as he wondered what could possibly await his return. He’d have to wait until Hannibal came round of course, recovered himself a little, but what then? He’d snuck off from the States with forged papers, gone out on a rescue mission without permission and then declared his undying love for his CO… he couldn’t have screwed his career – and life – any more if he’d set out with that express intention. 

His initial resolution to park himself at Hannibal’s side and fall on his sword the moment the man awoke diminished as he neared the base. Instead, his ingrained self-preservation kicked in and he managed to get himself a transfer back to the States before the temperature around him got too hot. He couldn’t avoid the reaming out he’d received from Morrison on his return though, although, oddly, he thought he’d caught the man trying not to laugh once or twice. He’d been assigned light duties after that, a desk job, but thankfully well away from General Wallis which had to be the only ray of light to permeate this current fog – that and the fact that Hannibal had made it, and was recovering well, although Face couldn’t imagine he’d want much to do with him once he was back on his feet once more. 

With that sobering thought never far from the forefront of his mind, Face drops to his knees and starts scrabbling around in the calorie-fest on the floor, pushing a lid back on his Chunky Monkey, righting a bottle of beer as it starts fizzing from under the cap and belatedly realising that there’s no way on earth he’s going to be able to carry everything up to his pokey third floor apartment on his own. And then, frustratingly, that's the point that it all starts to bubble over inside him; the weeks of worry over Hannibal's health, the self-recrimination regarding his actions, the creeping realisation that he’s ruined any chance he’d ever had of achieving what has been his only ambition in life since he was fifteen years old… It rises inside him and crests like a crashing wave and he can only bow his head, kneeling in the detritus of his nine-year-old’s diet, and screw his eyes closed at the threatening tears. 

“You need a hand there, kid?”

The deep voice behind him seems equally placed in both dream and nightmare and he lurches away as if stung, staggering to his feet before standing on a rolling jar of peanut butter and crashing sideways into the wall, jarring his shoulder and pitching forwards until a firm hand closes on his bicep and pulls him upright. Steady blue eyes regard him carefully, frowning a little at what they see and then release him as he finds solid ground once more.

Your eyes are so blue. Had this man said that to him?

He steps back, feeling for the security of the wall with his hands before running a shaking hand through his hair, across his mouth and then, tardily, remembering his protocol. “Colonel Smith, sir,” he flings his hand up into, possibly, the messiest salute he’s ever done and just feels the panic inside him triple as Hannibal's frown deepens. 

“At ease, kid,” there’s definite irritation in that voice which just kicks Face’s heart up another gear, “And let’s pick this shit up, there’s ice cream all over the floor.”

There is, and if Face had been embarrassed about his shopping before Hannibal had shown up, it’s nothing to how he feels now and it’s only the fact that he can’t possibly deny it’s his that stops him from even trying. 

The work together in silence, Face trying so hard to make sure that his fingers don’t go within twenty miles of Hannibal’s that he drops three or four things in the space of a minute and feels the heat in his cheeks intensify even more. He hears Hannibal’s sigh and wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. 

“Why don’t you take those up,” Hannibal is gesturing to the armful on jars that Face is trying to pin to his chest, “I’ll get the rest.”

Face is gone like the wind, a nod the only thing he uses to answer although his relief is short-lived once he realises that Hannibal is going to follow him up, right into his tiny little studio, and he’s caught again, hovering in the doorway, wondering if he can dump his groceries and get back downstairs in time to head the man off, when he hears footsteps on the stairs, a weird jolly whistling as well, and instead he flees into the corner that serves as his kitchen.

He hears Hannibal come in and then stop, knows he’s looking around the little space and imagines how it would look to someone on Hannibal’s salary, someone who sees the point in buying things for his home, someone who has family pictures, gifts, memories to display. Face, of course, has nothing. The feet then move again and Hannibal's voice sounds right behind him, “Nice place, kid. Minimalist. Where do you want these?”

Minimalist? It’s empty and barren and Face can’t help the defensive, “I’ve not been here long,” that bursts out of him. It’s a lie, and he realises too late that Hannibal will know that. “Just there is fine, thanks,” the quicker Hannibal drops off the groceries, the quicker he will leave, but to Face’s horror he starts putting beers in the fridge, rotating the nasty orange cheese squares he’s just bought so they’re underneath the half pack he already has, opening the freezer box to stuff the Ben and Jerry’s in next to the stack of freeze pops and Face has never felt that his life is so sad before. 

But then all the offending groceries are gone and Hannibal is leaning against the counter with a look of careful casualness and Face wishes he had something else to busy himself with. There’s nothing though and so he leans up against the microwave, stuffs his hands in his pockets and forces himself into action. “How are you feeling now?” It’s not a bad start, “How’s your leg?”

Hannibal pats his thigh. “Well, I’ve got myself another pretty mean scar to add to the collection, but it’s good as new now – all healed up.” He leans forward a little, catches Face’s eye. “Thanks to you.”

Face is still on edge, feels the words as a slight for missing the five-inch gash in the first place and bristles a little, folding his arms tightly across his chest and looking to the picture window – the only reason he chose this pokey studio in the first place. “I know. I’m sorry. The mud was so thick but you’re right – I should have checked more thoroughly. I should have followed the drill. I-”

Firm hands on his biceps shock him into swallowing the rest of his words and his head swings around to stare, fish-like, into Hannibal's intense expression. “You saved my life.” The words are so low that Face feels them hit right into his groin and stir his dick into life which is all he needs at that moment and his cheeks pink up at the realisation. “Again. Like in Russia. You seem to be just there right when I need you.”

Face can feel his dick doubling in size and he hopes to hell that Hannibal doesn’t look down as he knows it will be pushing against the denim of his jeans, clearly outlined as it swells against his abdomen. He himself can’t look at anything other than Hannibal, finds himself drawn right into that intense stare, feels like he’s drowning and hasn’t got it in him to care. 

“I should have done better,” it’s all Face can think. Hannibal deserves the very best – it wasn’t what he got. 

Those blue eyes pull back a little at that, and Face feels them appraising him, delving right inside to pull out all of his secrets and there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop them. More worrying, he doesn’t even know if he wants to. 

“You did good, kid.” 

How can such a powerful man produce such a gentle voice?

“You came for me, you found me, you kept me alive and made sure I was taken home. Then you ran out on me. Why was that?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be there…” the words are pulled, unbidden, from Face’s lips and Hannibal’s mouth quirks up into a tiny little smile. 

“Didn’t seem to worry you when you were blagging your way across the Atlantic. Or lying to me over the permission you’d had. Or standing your ground against one of Russ’ bawling outs.” Like Morrison before him, Hannibal seems amused by this fact and Face can think of nothing to say. “You ran out on me,” the words are low again, tender, like the hand on his cheek, “after you told me you loved me. Why was that?”

Face closes his eyes as he feels the utter mortification creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. What is the matter with him? Why does he have such an incredibly strong drive towards self-destruction? Why couldn’t he have been happy with just thinking his forbidden thoughts? He’s ruined it all. 

“Was it true?” there's more than a hint of nervousness in that question and Face allows his eyes to flick open again, blinking away the moisture that’s pooling there. “Did you mean it?”

There’s a world of possibility in those words and Face weighs them up. He can say no, can imagine how Hannibal will laugh, take a step back and together they can pretend that none of this ever happened. He can frown and fake confusion and blame the fever and the infection, offer the boss an easy way out. Or he can man up, can admit to what he’s done, what he feels and take whatever comes his way, good or bad. And, deep down, he knows that this is far too important to lie about.

“Yes.”

One word. More vital than an amalgamation of every single word that Face has ever uttered.

For a moment there’s nothing, they just look at each other and Face finds himself wishing that time itself would stop forever, right there and then. But that desire is resolutely crushed as Hannibal moves in, closer and closer, his heat leaping between them and lighting Face’s heart on fire. He lets his eyes slide closed as the intensity threatens him and then he feels it: lips on his, better than he’d even imagined they could be, more tender, more precious, and a finger, gently tracing the swollen outline of his cock, leaving tendrils of fire in its wake. A breath then, against the shell of his ear, making him shiver with its proximity, preceding the words, “And I love you. Always have, always will,” that are whispered straight into his heart. 

No one has ever told him that they love him. Not as a child, not as an adult, not even as a lie in the throes of passion and it’s those words that finally break through his fear and send him tumbling into Hannibal's arms, into his life – into his heart. He pours everything into his kiss, every single part of him – good and bad – and just hopes that Hannibal can cope with it all. Somehow, he feels that he can.

Hannibal’s response is immediate and Face finds himself crushed into a broad chest, devoured by the lips on his, the arms that hold him close, the grinding cock that ruts against him creating delicious pressure against his own erection. It’s totally overwhelming and everything that Face has ever wanted. He’s always needed to be held like this, consumed like this, but he’s never trusted anyone anywhere near enough to let it happen. Hannibal? Not only does he trust the man with everything he is, the Colonel seems to know his every desire, seems hardwired into Face’s own needs, so much so that Face can only cling on and let it all happen, let everything wash over him. 

Dexterous fingers pop the button on his jeans and a large hand shimmies around to cup his ass, pushing his clothing out of the way as it does. Around the sensory overload that is Hannibal’s kiss, Face can feel his bare ass as it rubs against the counter behind him and then he’s lifted by one strong arm, mouth still sealed tight, and perched on the cool wooden top. 

Hannibal leaves him then and he almost sways off his perch in shock as all that heat and power just vanishes. He doesn’t go far though, just a single step, his eyes on fire and his mouth kiss-red, and reaches in to tug Face’s jeans and briefs further down, all the way off, tugging his sneakers off as well and leaving him sitting on the counter in white sport socks and a t-shirt.

For the very first time since Hannibal’s lips found his, Face feels vaguely ridiculous and is very aware of his cock, huge and red, as it juts out into the air in front of him. He shuffles awkwardly as Hannibal unfastens his own combats and that gets those hawk eyes straight back on him, zeroing in on his bobbing erection and he freezes, caught in the hunter’s glare.

“Oh, kid,” Jesus, why does that word do such insanely hot things to him? “Look at you.”

And Face looks, it’s just his cock and he’s seen it many, many times but he’s never seen anyone look at it like this before, like it’s a wonder of the modern world and as Hannibal stares it bobs and dribbles and strains towards its new owner like a desperate puppy.

“So beautiful…” Hannibal reaches a hand out, slowly, slowly edging its way towards Face’s eager flesh and Face feels like he could come from the anticipation alone. As if agreeing with him, his cock issues forth a little burst of pre-come and Face shudders, watching open mouthed as it beads on the shining head and drips down in a sheer, gossamer thread. “So beautiful,” Hannibal repeats and then that hand moves closer, a single finger reaching out to touch the source of the thread and Face holds his breath. 

It’s just a single finger, a finger-tip even, and it just touches, soft and delicate but it’s still enough to have Face letting out a strangled cry. He's been sucked off more times than he can remember, had his dick in men and women and a whole variety of toys, but nothing, absolutely nothing on earth has ever felt this incredible before.

The finger is gone then and Face opens his mouth to complain before he sees where it’s going and his throat dries up as he watches Hannibal lift it to his own mouth and taste it, closing his eyes at his first taste of Face’s intimacy and again, the urge to come surges up inside him. His whimper gets the boss’ eyes back on him and a wolf’s smile lights his face as he reaches out again. “You liked that?” he whispers as those fingers get closer. “What about this, you like this?”

At that, Face’s entire cock is engulfed by a huge, hot hand and he throws his head back, eyes closed, throat bared as Hannibal slowly pumps him up and down. He’s vaguely aware of shuffling and scrabbling and crashing around him but him can’t care, not when the pressure on his dick is so wonderfully tight and his orgasm is steadily creeping up on him. 

But then there’s another hand, warm and slick and tracing a line down his balls and, feeling like a whore but not giving a damn, he tips his hips forward and grants access to his most private place. 

The invitation is accepted at once and Face can’t help throwing his head back again and crying out as a single finger slides right up inside him and straight onto his prostate like it’s been doing it all his life. He pushes down, lost in the hand on his cock and the finger inside him but then it’s gone and he looks up, knowing his face is flushed, his pupils dilated, his mouth open, his chest heaving and – from seeing to look on Hannibal’s face – it’s obviously a look that the Colonel approves of. 

“Gonna have you, Face,” Face just moans at the words as the hand on his cock tightens even more and two fingers slide into him. “Can’t wait any longer. Gonna have you here and now.”

God, yes, Face wants to yell but he’s never been that vocal in sex before and the words dry up in his throat before they can get out. It doesn’t seem that Hannibal needs a reply though, or maybe Face widening his spread legs is enough of one, as the next thing the finger and the hand are gone and Face is being tilted back against the wall, his hips angled and a hot, slick cock is pressing against his entrance. 

Face has had his share of bottoming, knows how to take a cock but he’s never felt anything like this before, nothing like this heat and stretch and relentless filling and, as he forces himself to relax and accommodate, he wonders just how fucking big Hannibal is. 

Pretty darn big, is his answer he reasons as he feels the cool press of balls against his ass. The tip of Hannibal's cock is almost up into his belly and the thickness of its girth means that every single movement stimulates his fizzing prostate, so much so that he knows he’s going to come any moment, even as his cock bobs freely between them both. 

“All these years,” Hannibal sounds pretty close to the edge himself. “All these years I’ve wanted you, wanted this, you, riding my cock, hard and dripping and writhing for me.” Jesus. It’s all Face can think as he’s brought higher and higher and higher. “But I never dreamt it would be like this. This fucking hot. That you would be this incredible.”

There’s a deep thrust at that which Face feels deep in his belly and burning, desperate lips on his and he’s suddenly helpless. He can’t move, not even to stop the bite of the work top against his tail bone, he can’t speak or even damn well breathe properly. Hannibal is on him and in him and around him and everything and he’s never, ever felt more complete. It’s all he can do to hang on and try to drag enough oxygen into his lungs to keep him conscious as strong hands hold him still, a huge cock pounds away against his prostate, a perfect mouth ravages everything from him and his own cock is roughly pummelled between two, hair sprinkled bellies. It’s fucking perfect. 

He yells out as he comes. The first time ever, his body stiffening like a board as he lets out a wordless cry right into Hannibal's mouth. His release seems never ending, exploding from within him to coat his and Hannibal’s bellies, filling his nose with the smell of semen and making everything slick and dirty and even more wonderful. And then the boss’ thrusts become frantic, the hands holding him still are almost painful, his lips are bitten, the final thrust brutal and then Face feels it inside him, a rush of semen, hot and alien and he realises they haven’t used protection; it’s a first for him and incredibly, just makes it all the more perfect. 

And then it’s over but Hannibal just draws him upright, pushing himself even deeper into Face’s body, and holds him against a heavy and semen splattered chest. “I love you,” it’s recognising that Hannibal is shaking that makes Face realise that he is too. “I love you so much.”

Face can’t answer, it’s just too much for him and so he holds on and listens to the words and that beating heart beneath his ear, feels that huge cock inside him as it shifts and softens and allows Hannibal’s come to leak out of him and run over the swell of his ass, drinks in the kisses and touches and love that he can just about taste, and lets the warm tears run down his cheeks at the incredible beauty of it all.


	11. Not So Brief Encounter

Hannibal shifts himself against the wall and glances down as the man asleep across his belly stirs a little, mumbling something incomprehensible into the night. A smile, tender and soft, washes over his face as he reaches out and strokes through too-short hair, trying to soothe his bed partner back into a deeper sleep. It works, and with his big hand still in place, Hannibal goes back to admiring the view – both of the city lights spread out in front of the picture window, and the perfect form of his young love, pressed close to him and sleeping.

Something warm and beautiful blooms in Hannibal's chest as he considers the difference that twenty-four hours has made to his life. This time in the previous night, Hannibal was alone in his bed, his thoughts full of Face and what on earth had happened to make him vanish the way that he had. Hannibal had had many a frantic hour before he’d even managed to ascertain whether the kid had made it back to base after arranging Hannibal’s med-evac, and that came after the four days when he was so out of it he was no use to anyone.

No one seemed to know much of anything, not why Face had been there in the first place, if he’d come back in at all and if he had, where he’d gone to afterwards. It was worrying and concerning, but it was also more than a little interesting – the army tried to run a tight ship, someone who could dance around the edges of that ship and come up with their own agenda would be extremely useful to Hannibal. That and the words he was sure he hadn’t imagined as the chopper had lifted him away, well it was still more proof as to why he needed to get that kid by his side – immediately. 

Hannibal himself was in no fit state to do anything other than lie in a hospital bed and let his leg heal up and the antibiotics do their thing, but he’d sent Reuben, his XO out on the mission of finding out what had happened to Face. Reuben is efficient and thorough and not averse to using more novel methods to achieve results – there’s a reason he’s Hannibal's XO after all – but even he had struggled to follow the convoluted trail of interestingly interpreted orders and slightly ‘amended’ paperwork that Face had left behind him. 

Finding out he was back in the States, on effective lockdown from a Morrison no-doubt very pissed off with the running around he’d been subjected to, gave Hannibal the time to heal, and to try and work out what had made Face run from him. 

He smooths a hand over warm skin, skimming sleek back muscles and frowns a little, he’s still not entirely sure, even now, but he feels certain it was fear, fear of the secret he’d exposed, fear of Hannibal, fear of himself… who knew? But Hannibal would, now that they’d finally made the leap into this, he’d make it his life’s work to know everything he could about this man. 

They’d made a good start, and Hannibal’s smile returns as he thinks back to some of the things they’ve done in the fifteen hours since Hannibal turned up to find him kneeling amidst a sea of spilt junk food in the lobby. He’s come four times, something of a record for his not-as-young-as-it-was body. The best one by far when Face sucked him off, making it last forever, both the teasing and the orgasm, and leaving Hannibal just about passed out in a crumpled heap on the floor. He's enjoyed playing Face’s body as well, pulling out every damn trick he knows to get the younger man sweating and writhing and moaning and coming with enough force to splatter the walls and the floor. 

There’s more to this relationship than just incredible sex though, he knows that for sure. He’s barely had a day’s worth of conversation out of this man in the almost ten years they’ve known of each other, but even so, he knows this is his soul mate laid here with him, knows that this thing is going to be life-long and wonderful. To be honest, he just can’t wait for Face to wake up so they can get started. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Face stirs at his side and looks up, smiling as sleepy eyes blink Hannibal's way. “You okay, boss? Can I get you something?”

His voice is rough with sleep, or maybe it’s from swallowing Hannibal’s cock right down to its root and the mere thought of that starts the blood rushing south once more but Hannibal has other plans for the minute. “I’m a little hungry,” he smooths through that soft hair once more, “Thought I’d get us something to eat.”

Face’s smile vanishes and he looks a little shifty and starts to move off the bed and that wasn’t what Hannibal wanted – at all. “I’ll get it – I think I have some falafel in the ice box, and maybe some pitta, I can do us-”

Hannibal bends down and kisses him, deep and possessive and the type of kiss he will never, ever tire of – it also affectively halts the kid’s plans. 

“No, it’s okay,” Hannibal is talking straight into his mouth. “I’ll get it. I don’t want you leaving this bed at all if I can help it.” 

He slides out at that, smiling to himself as he considers how useful this new weapon he’s found against Face’s smart mouth could be – although maybe not in front of anyone else. He feels ridiculously like whistling a happy tune as he crosses the studio to the kitchenette, wondering if Face is watching his ass as he does so, and drops down in front of the fridge; flicking down the drawer of the ice box, he knows exactly what he's going for. The two tubs of Ben and Jerry's sit glistening enticingly in front of him and his smile widens as he grabs them both. After that he straightens again and quickly loads his arms up with peanut butter, Nutella, jelly, pancakes, a couple of beers and some sad looking strawberries he’d found at the very back of the fridge.

He turns to grin across the apartment at Face who's still sitting in the centre of the crumpled sheets, the faint outline of a bite right over his heart and starts walking over, buck naked, a million calories stacked against his chest. He opens his mouth to speak, nothing really, just some cheesy comment about what Hannibal would like to do with the ice cream but then he stops, grinds to a halt at the expression that suddenly washes across the kid’s face.

He’s unsure what it is and his happy little mood tries to desert him as he wonders if it’s second thoughts, but no, fear? No again but whatever it is it makes him shudder as Face suddenly looks naked, more naked than without clothes, more naked than Hannibal as ever seen him before. Raw, exposed, vulnerable.

“This is real isn’t it?” 

It’s quietly posed and tremulous and a confirmation far more than a question and for a moment Hannibal is confused, is thinking of the food nestled in his arms but then it hits him, along with a wave of frustrated anger that after everything it’s taken them to get to this point – Face still has to ask. 

The anger vanishes, though, as he looks into that face and sees the anxious hope and just feels so damn humbled that he means that much to this incredible man. He brings his smile back again, cranks it up a few notches. “Oh, it’s real, alright, Templeton,” it’s the first time he’s used that name and he likes it, likes the way it rolls off his tongue like a fine wine. “I love you. I want to be with you for as long as you’ll have me. This is forever stuff, you know.”

Like a firework, the anxiety in Face’s expression melts into bemused awe and Hannibal finds his grin blooming into a laugh of pure joy. 

“Shift over,” he orders as he sets on his way back towards the bed, “and what are you having on your first pancake?”

“Jelly. And ice cream.”

Mercurial and adaptive as ever, Face has already thrown a cloak over the insecure child who lives within him and that’s fine for Hannibal. For now. He’s knows he’s there though, deep inside, has always known really, and from this moment on it’s going to be his life’s work to get to know him – him and all the characters that make up this complex individual. A life of brief encounters, he can certainly live with that.


End file.
